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THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


HENRY    WADSWORTH 
LONGFELLOW 


IN   SIX  VOLUMES 
VOLUME   I. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT,  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY 
THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES,  ETC. 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1841,  1842,  1843,  1846,  1849, 18G6,  and  1873S 
BY  HENKY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright,  1886, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


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CONTENTS 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT.  PAOK 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 9 

PRELUDE 15 

ix  HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT 19 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE    .        .        .        .                .        •  20 
THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS        .        .        .        .22 

THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS 23 

FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS 25 

FLOWERS 27 

THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY 30 

MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR  ...  32 

EARLIER  POEMS. 

AN  APRIL  DAY 35 

AUTUMN 37 

WOODS  IN  WINTER 38 

HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETHLEHEM    .  39 

SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS 41 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY 42 

BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK 44 

L'ENVOI 46 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 49 

THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR 55 

"'  THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 60 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 64 

ENDYMION 66 

IT   IS   NOT   ALWAYS  MAY 68 

THE  RAINY  DAY  .                                                          .  69 


350446 


6  CONTENTS 

Gon's-AcKB 69 

To  THE  RIVER  CHARLES 71 

BLIND  BARTIMEUS 73 

THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE 74 

MAIDENHOOD 77 

EXCELSIOR 79 

POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE S3 

To  WILLIAM  E.  CHANNING 87 

--•THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM 88 

THE  GOOD  PART,  THAT  SHALL  NOT  BE  TAKEN  AWAY  89 
THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP  ...  91 
THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT  .  .  .  .92 

THE  WITNESSES 93 

THE  QUADROON  GIRL 94 

THE  WARNING 96 

THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 99 

THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 103 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 185 

CARILLON 187 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 189 

A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE 192 

THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD 194 

NUREMBERG 197 

THE  NORMAN  BARON 201 

RAIN  IN  SUMMER 204 

To  A  CHILD 207 

THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION 214 

THE  BRIDGE 217 

To  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD 219 

SONGS 

DAY  is  DONE         ....        .        .  221 

AJTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY         ....      223 

To  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG  BOOK  .        .  .  224 


CONTENTS  1 

WALTER  VON  DEB  VOGELWEID          .        .        .      227 

DRINKING  SONG 229 

THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS       .        .        .      231 
THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG         ....  234 

SONNETS 

MEZZO  CAMMIN 234 

THE  EVENING  STAR 235 

AUTUMN 236 

DANTE 236 

CURFEW 237 

THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE   FIRESIDE. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 239 

DEDICATION 243 

BY  THE  SEASIDE 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHD?         ....  245 

SEAWEED 258 

CHRYSAOR 260 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA  ....       260 

TWILIGHT 262 

SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT 263 

THE  LIGHTHOUSE '      .        .  265 

THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD        ....      267 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE 

RESIGNATION 270 

THE  BUILDERS 272 

SAND  OF  THE  DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR-GLASS  .        .  273 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW 275 

KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN          .        .        .  277 

GASPAR  BECERRA 279 

PEGASUS  IN  POUND 280 

TEGNEVS  DRAPA 282 

SONNET  ON  .  MRS.    KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FROM 

SHAKESPEARE 285 

THE  SINGERS 286 

SUSPIRIA 287 

HYMN  FOB  MY  BROTHER'S  ORDINATION   .  288 


8  CONTENTS 

APPENDIX. 

I.  JUVENILE  POEMS 289 

The  Battle  of  Lovell's  Pond          .        .        .289 

To  lanthe 290 

Thanksgiving 291 

Autumnal  Nightfall 292 

Italian  Scenery        ......  293 

The  Lunatic  Girl 295 

The  Venetian  Gondolier          ....  297 

The  Angler's  Song 297 

Lover's  Rock 298 

Dirge  over  a  Nameless  Grave      .         .         .       299 
A  Song  of  Savoy    ......  300 

The  Indian  Hunter 301 

Ode  written  for  the  Commemoration  at  Frye- 

burg,  Maine,  of  Lovewell's  Fight    .         .  302 

Jeckoyva 303 

The  Sea-Diver 304 

Musings        .......       305 

Song 306 

Song  of  the  Birds 306 

IL   NOTES  TO  THE  POEMS  IN  THIS  VOLUME      .        .  307 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PACK 

POKTRAIT  OF  MB.  LONGFELLOW  AT  THE  AGE  OF  33.   Frontispiece 
(Etched   by  S.    A.   Schoff,  after  a  painting  by  C.  G. 
Thompson.) 

PRAGUE 30 

(Engraved  on  wood  by  John  Andrew  and  Son.  after  the 
original  by  F.  B.  Schell.) 

"  THE  SILVER  HABIT  OF  THE  CLOUDS  " 37 

(Engraved  on  wood  by  A.  V.  S.  Anthony,  after  the  origi- 
nal by  J.  Appleton  Brown.) 

THE  GATES  OF  JERICHO 73 

(Engraved  on  wood  by  John  Andrew  and  Son,  after  the 
original  by  E.  H.  Garrett.) 

GYPSIES'  CAMP  IN  THE  FOREST 170 

(Engraved  on  wood  by  F.  Juengling,  after  the  original 
by  C.  S.  Reinhart.) 

ALBRECHT  DURER'S  HOUSE 197 

(Engraved  on  wood  by  John  Andrew  and  Son,  after  the 
original  by  F.  B.  Schell.) 

"  AND  FROM  WRECKS  OF  SHIPS  " 258 

(Engraved  on  wood  by  J.  Filmer,  after  the  original  by  J. 
Davidson.) 

The  wood-cuts  are  printed  on  Imperial  Japanese  paper. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

THE  first  writing  of  Mr.  Longfellow  which  found 
its  way  into  print  was  The  Battle  of  LovelVs 
Pond,  four  verses,  published  in  the  Portland  Go- 
zette  when  he  was  thirteen  years  of  age.  When  he 
was  a  student  in  Bowdoin  College  he  also  contrib- 
uted poems  to  a  periodical  journal,  and  shortly 
after  graduation  he  wrote  poems  for  an  annual, 
The  Atlantic  Souvenir.  A  few  prose  sketches 
appeared  during  this  period,  but  it  may  be  said 
that  previous  to  his  first  journey  to  Europe,  that 
is,  until  he  was  nineteen  years  of  age,  whatever 
expression  he  sought  was  most  naturally  in  the 
poetic  form.  His  travel  and  study  abroad  gave 
him  pause  in  this  regard.  His  expectation  of  a 
professorship  and  his  own  intellectual  awakening 
led  him  to  throw  himself  into  the  study  of  modern 
languages  and  literature,  and  shortly  before  his 
return  home  after  a  three  years'  absence  he  could 
write  :  "  My  poetic  career  is  finished.  Since  I  left 
America  I  have  hardly  put  two  lines  together." 
His  note-book  and  his  letters  indicate  that  his 
schemes  for  literary  production  looked  distinctly 
to  prose ;  and  during  the  next  ten  years  he  gave 
himself,  with  a  single  exception,  to  the  prose  form. 
In  this  time  he  produced  Outre-Mer,  Hyperion, 


10  VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT 

and  almost  the  entire  bulk  of  the  critical  and  lit- 
erary work  of  which  he  gave  a  selection  in  Drift- 
Wood. 

The  exception  was  a  notable  and  interesting 
one.  His  introduction  to  other  modern  languages 
and  literatures  than  the  English  was  scarcely  made 
before  he  began  to  render  the  verse  which  de- 
lighted him  into  corresponding  forms  in  English ; 
and  while,  after  his  return  to  America,  he  was  con- 
tributing prose  papers  to  the  reviews  and  journals, 
he  was  constantly  illustrating  his  criticism  by 
specimens  of  translation,  and  publishing  also  inde- 
pendent renderings  of  current  foreign  poetic  liter- 
ature. His  first  book,  aside  from  school-manuals, 
was  his  translation  of  Coplas  de  Manrique,  and 
his  prose  volumes  were  lighted  by  lyrics  in  which 
his  own  poetic  genius  was  a  transparent  medium 
for  the  beauty  of  the  originals. 

It  was  when  he  was  in  the  flush  of  his  intel- 
lectual manhood,  established  in  what  promised  to 
be  a  permanent  position  in  Harvard  College,  and 
with  his  days  of  wandering  over,  that  he  turned 
again  to  poetry.  He  was  still  a  student,  but  the 
urgency  of  the  student  -  mood  was  passed ;  the 
riches  of  human  thought  had  become  in  a  measure 
his  possession ;  his  personal  experience  had  been 
enlarged  and  deepened ;  he  no  longer  saw  prin- 
cipally the  outside  of  the  world  ;  youth  with  its 
surrender  to  the  moment  had  gone,  and  manhood 
with  its  hours  of  reflection  had  come.  So  we  may 
interpret  the  poet's  mood  as  it  discloses  itself  in 
the  verses  which  introduce  his  first  volume  of  orig- 
inal poetry. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  11 

The  conclusion  of  one  period  of  his  intellectual 
growth,  as  instanced  in  the  writing  of  Hyperion, 
melts  into  the  beginning  of  a  new  period,  which  is 
instanced  by  the  several  Psalms,  so  called  by  him- 
self, written  and  published  at  the  end  of  1838  and 
during  1839.  In  this  latter  year,  a  few  months 
after  the  appearance  of  Hyperion,  Mr.  Longfellow 
gathered  these  recent  poems,  with  those  belonging 
to  earlier  stages,  into  a  volume  to  which  he  gave 
the  title  Voices  of  the  Night.  The  publication 
seems  to  have  been  a  sudden  thought  coming  to 
him  in  the  exhilaration  of  his  busy  life.  He  writes 
in  his  diary,  under  date  of  September  llth,  1839 : 
"  I  have  taken  to  the  Greek  poets  again,  and  mean 
to  devote  one  hour  every  morning  to  them.  Began 
to-day  with  Anacreon.  What  exquisite  language ! 
Why  did  I  ever  forget  my  Greek  ?  "  and  the  next 
day  he  notes :  "  I  mean  to  publish  a  volume  of 
poems,  under  the  title  of  Voices  of  the  Night.  As 
old  Michael  Drayton  says,  — 

'  I  will ;  yea,  and  I  may ! 
Who  shall  oppose  my  way  ? 
For  what  is  he  alone 
That  of  himself  can  say, 
He  's  heire  of  Helicon  ? '" 

He  was  not  yet,  indeed,  so  conscious  of  his  destiny, 
that  he  could  not  outline,  a  few  days  later,  a  plan 
of  literary  work  which  embraced  a  history  of  Eng- 
lish poetry,  a  novel,  a  series  of  sketches,  and  only 
one  poem  which  may  have  been  a  paraphrase  of 
Scandinavian  verse.  But  it  is  to  be  noted  that 
after  the  publication  of  Voices  of  the  Night  the 
succession  of  volumes  of  poetry  was  broken  only 


12  VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT 

by  £javanagh  and  Drift  -  Wood  in  the  collected 
prose -works.  Once  only  did  he  seem  to  falter, 
when,  as  noted  in  a  previous  volume  of  this  series, 
he  felt  the  fire  of  poetry  burning  low,  and  thought 
to  gather  the  sticks  of  his  scattered  prose  as  a  sort 
of  final  blaze. 

Voices  of  the  Night  as  originally  published,  and 
as  repeated  in  all  collective  editions  of  Mr.  Long- 
fellow's poetry  previous  to  this,  comprised  three 
groups  of  poems :  those  recently  written  and  pub- 
lished in  the  Knickerbocker  magazine  ;  a  selection 
from  his  poems  published  in  periodicals  during 
and  immediately  after  his  college  days ;  and  trans- 
lations which  he  had  also  contributed  to  periodi- 
cals and  had  inserted  in  Outre-Mer  and  Hype- 
rion. He  introduced  the  volume  with  Prelude  and 
summed  it  up  with  U  Envoi.  In  accordance  with 
the  plan  of  the  present  edition,  the  group  of  trans- 
lations is  reserved  for  a  later  volume,  where  all 
poems  of  this  class  will  be  brought  together.  Other- 
wise this  division  agrees  with  the  original  volume, 
and  the  foot-note  readings  are  from  the  first  form 
of  the  poems  in  that  edition.  The  title  of  the 
division  strictly  belongs  to  the  eight  poems  which 
follow  the  Prelude  ;  originally  it  was  applied  par- 
ticularly to  the  poem  now  entitled  Footsteps  oj 
Angels. 

The  success  of  this  volume  was  marked,  and  the 
tone  in  which  the  author  speaks  of  it  in  his  diary 
and  letters,  as  well  as  the  joyousness  which  per- 
vades his  life  at  this  period,  indicates  how  sincere 
and  lasting  was  this  new  birth  of  song.  He  writes 
to  his  father,  December  9,  1839 :  "  The  Voices  of 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  13 

the  Night  will  be  out  in  a  few  days.  It  will  suc- 
ceed finely,  I  have  no  doubt."  In  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Greene,  January  2,  1840,  speaking  of  the  book,  he 
says :  "  Its  success  has  been  signal.  It  has  not 
been  out  three  weeks,  and  the  publisher  has  not 
more  than  fifty  copies  left,  out  of  nine  hundred." 
Again,  to  the  same  correspondent,  he  writes,  May 
28,  1840 :  "  The  Poems  have  gone  to  a  second 
edition ;  which  is  worth  mentioning,  as  it  does  not 
often  happen  nowadays  that  a  volume  of  poems 
runs  through  an  edition  so  soon."  Five  months 
later  he  announces  to  his  father  that  the  third  edi- 
tion is  in  press,  and  adds :  "  The  publisher,  John 
Owen,  has  so  lively  a  faith  in  the  continued  sale  of 
the  work  that  he  is  stereotyping  it."  This  third 
edition  was  a  limited  one  on  large  paper ;  the 
fourth  was  printing  before  the  end  of  the  year, 
and  in  April,  1841,  he  writes  to  his  father :  "  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  informing  you  that  the  fifth 
edition  of  the  Voices  will  go  to  press  as  soon  as 
paper  can  be  made  or  bought  suitable  for  the  pur- 
pose. I  am  very  agreeably  surprised  at  the  suc- 
cess of  the  work." 

Meanwhile  he  had  been  writing  some  of  the 
most  famous  of  his  poems,  and  in  the  next  season 
was  considering  the  publication  of  a  new  volume. 
The  publication  of  new  volumes,  however,  did  not 
cause  Mr.  Longfellow's  first  book  to  be  forgotten. 
Although  it  was  included  in  the  Philadelphia 
illustrated  edition  which  appeared  in  1845,  and 
again  was  included  in  the  cheap  edition  in  double 
columns,  published  early  in  1846,  he  was  able  to 
write  in  his  diary,  July  7,  1846  :  — 


14  VOICES  OF  THE   NIGHT 

"  Looked  over  accounts  with  printers  and  pub- 
lishers. Find  that  between  eleven  and  twelve 
thousand  copies  of  the  Voices  of  the  Night  have 
been  sold." 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 


inrvoSoreipa    TUV    iro\vir6va>v 
'Epffi66(i>   tOi  •    fj.6\f   fj.6\e    n 
'Ayafif/jLVOviov    eirl    86fj.ov  • 
vvb    yap    oA/yeW,    \nr6   re    <rv, 

EURIPIDES. 

PRELUDE. 

Written  in  the  autumn  of  1839,  when  the  poems  which  it  in- 
troduces were  collected  for  publication  in  book  form. 

PLEASANT  it  was,  when  woods  were  green 

And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 
To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 
Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 
Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 

Alternate  come  and  go ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground  ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 


16  VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT 

Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 
With  one  continuous  sound ;  — 

A  slumberous  sound,  a  sound  that  brings 

The  feelings  of  a  dream, 
As  of  innumerable  wings, 
As,  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie, 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea ; 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled  ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 
And  chronicles  of  eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams. 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a  bride, 


PRELUDE  17 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 
And  bishop's-caps  have  golden  rings, 
Musing  upon  many  things, 
1  sought  the  woodlands  wide. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild  j 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy  ! 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy  ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 
"  Come,  be  a  child  once  more  !  " 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow ; 

Oh,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar,  — 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  ! 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a  vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 


18  VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again,  — 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  !     Stay,  oh  stay ! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 
And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 
"  It  cannot  be !     They  pass  away ! 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a  child  ! 

"  The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 

Watered  by  living  springs ; 
The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise  ; 
Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise  ; 
Its  clouds  are  angels'  wings. 

"  Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 

Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 
Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 
Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 
Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

"  There  is  a  forest  where  the  din 

Of  iron  branches  sounds ! 
A  mighty  river  roars  between, 
And  whosoever  looks  therein 
Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, 

Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 


HYMN  TO   THE  NIGHT 

"  Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour ; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast ; 
Pallid  lips  say,  '  It  is  past ! 
We  can  return  no  more  ! ' 

"  Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write ! 

Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream  ! 
All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 
That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright,  — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme." 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

' AoTrao-n/,  rpiAXicrros. 

Composed  in  the  summer  of  1839  "•while  sitting  at  my  cham- 
ber window,  on  one  of  the  balmiest  nights  of  the  year.  I  en- 
deavored to  reproduce  the  impression  of  the  hour  and  scene." 

I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 

From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 


20  VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace !  Peace !  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer  1 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night ! 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT   THE   HEART   OF  THE   YOUNG    MAN   SAID   TO   THE 
PSALMIST. 

Written  July  26,  1838.  Mr.  Longfellow  said  of  this  poem : 
"  I  kept  it  some  time  in  manuscript,  unwilling  to  show  it  to  any 
one,  it  being  a  voice  from  my  inmost  heart,  at  a  time  when  I 
was  rallying  from  depression."  Before  it  was  published  in  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  October,  1838,  it  was  read  by  the  poet 
to  his  college  class  at  the  close  of  a  lecture  on  Goethe.  Its 
title,  though  used  now  exclusively  for  this  poem,  was  originally, 
in  the  poet's  mind,  a  generic  one.  He  notes  from  time  to  time 
that  he  has  written  a  psalm,  a  psalm  of  death,  or  another  psalm 
of  life.  The  ' '  psalmist ' '  is  thus  the  poet  himself.  When  printed 
in  the  Knickerbocker  it  bore  as  a  motto  the  lines  from  Crashaw  : 

Life  that  shall  send 

A  challenge  to  its  end, 

And  when  it  comes  say,  Welcome,  friend. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream !  — 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 


A   PSALM  OF  LIFE  21 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  jictj  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave. 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

Line  24  Footsteps  on  the  sands  of  time ; 
Line  25.  Footsteps,  that  perhaps  another, 


22  VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

In  his  diary,  under  date  of  December  6,  1838,  Mr.  Longfellow 
writes:  "A  beautiful  holy  morning  within  me.  I  was  softly  ex- 
cited, I  knew  not  why,  and  wrote  with  peace  in  my  heart,  and  not 
without  tears  in  my  eyes,  The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers,  a  Psalm 
of  Death.  I  have  had  an  idea  of  this  kind  in  my  mind  for  a 
long  time,  without  finding  any  expression  for  it  in  words.  This 
morning  it  seemed  to  crystallize  at  once,  without  any  effort  of 
my  own."  This  psalm  was  printed  in  the  Knickerbocker  for 
January,  1839,  with  the  sub-title  A  Psalm  of  Death,  and  with  the 
familiar  stanza  from  Henry  Vaughan,  beginning :  — 

Dear  beauteous  death  ;  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

THERE  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  naught  that  is  fair  ?  "  saith  he  ; 

"  Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though   the   breath  of   these  flowers   is  sweet 

to  me, 
I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 
He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  j 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS  23 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  He  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 
These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love  ; 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

Oh,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reaper  came  that  day ; 
'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

"  This  poem  was  written  on  a  beautiful  summer  night.  The 
moon,  a  little  strip  of  silver,  was  just  setting  behind  the  groves 
of  Mount  Auburn,  and  the  planet  Mars  blazing  in  the  southeast. 
There  was  a  singular  light  in  the  sky. ' '  H.  W.  L.  It  was  pub- 
lished in  the  same  number  of  the  Knickerbocker  as  the  last,  where 
it  was  headed  A  Second  Psalm  of  Life,  and  prefaced  by  another 
stanza  from  the  same  poem  of  Vaughan  :  — 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 

After  the  sun's  remove. 


24  VOICES  OF   THE  NIGHT 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon  : 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
Oh  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above 

A  hero's  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength !  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand. 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  ANGELS  25 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 

That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 
As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  erelong, 
Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

"  March  26,  1839.  A  lovely  morning.  Sat  at  home  and  wrote 
a  third  Psalm  of  Life,  which  I  began  long  ago,  but  could  never 
rightly  close  and  complete  till  now.  The  beginning  was  written 
more  than  a  year  ago,  and  is  copied  under  date  of  February  27, 
1838 ;  though,  if  I  remember,  I  composed  it  a  year  earlier,  even. 
In  the  afternoon  I  carried  it  to  Felton  and  left  it  with  him.  He 
came  up  in  the  evening  and  said  that  he  had  read  it  to  his  wife, 
who  '  cried  like  a  child. '  I  want  no  more  favorable  criticism  than 
this."  The  poem  in  its  first  form  bore  the  title  Evening  Shadows, 
and  will  be  found  in  the  notes  at  the  end  of  this  volume.  In  its 
present  form  it  was  printed  in  the  Knickerbocker,  May,  1839,  as 
Voices  of  the  Night :  a  Third  Psalm  of  Life.  The  reference  in 
the  fourth  stanza  is  to  the  poet's  friend  and  brother-in-law  George 
W.  Pierce,  of  whom  he  said  long  after:  "I  have  never  ceased 
to  feel  that  in  his  death  something  was  taken  from  my  own 
life  which  could  never  be  restored."  News  of  his  friend's  death 
reached  Mr.  Longfellow  in  Heidelberg  on  Christmas  eve,  1835, 
less  than  a  month  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Longfellow,  who  is 
referred  to  in  the  sixth  and  following  stanzas. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 


26  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Line  7.     The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 


FLOWERS  27 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


FLOWERS. 

"  I  wrote  this  poem  on  the  3d  of  October,  1837,  to  send  with  a 
bouquet  of  autumnal  flowers.  I  still  remember  the  great  delight 
I  took  in  its  composition,  and  the  bright  sunshine  that  streamed 
in  at  the  southern  windows  as  I  walked  to  and  fro,  pausing  ever 
and  anon  to  note  down  my  thoughts."  H.  W.  L.  It  was  prob- 
ably the  first  poem  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow  after  his  establish- 
ment at  Cambridge  [see  Introductory  Note,  ante],  and  was  pub- 
lished in  the  Knickerbocker,  December,  1837,  under  the  title  of 
Floral  Astrology. 

SPAKE  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and  golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 
Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 

Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 


28  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above  ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours  ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth,  these  golden  flowers< 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self -same,  universal  being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light ;  , 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seen* 

ing, 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers, 
Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 
Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born  ; 


FLOWERS  29 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn  ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing, 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield  ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  nature  stoop  to  drink ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone ; 

In"  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection, 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


80  VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT 


THE   BELEAGUERED  CITY. 

Completed  September  19,  1839.  Mr.  S.  Longfellow  states  that 
the  suggestion  of  the  poem  came  from  a  note  in  one  of  the  vol- 
umes of  Scott's  Border  Minstrelsy:  "Similar  to  this  was  the 
Nacht  Lager,  or  midnight  camp,  which  seemed  nightly  to  he- 
leaguer  the  walls  of  Prague,  but  which  disappeared  upon  the  re- 
citation of  [certain]  magical  words." 

I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old,  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 
There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 
The  troubled  army  fled ; 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY  31 

Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 
The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 

That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 
That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 

Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


32  VOICES   OF   THE  NIGHT 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR. 

Written  at  Cambridge,  September  17,  1839,  and  published  in 
the  Knickerbocker,  October,  1839,  as  The  Fifth  Psalm ;  the  author 
also  calls  it  in  his  Diary  An  Autumnal  Chant. 

YES,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 
And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared ! 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  sorely! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 
Caw !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 

The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 
They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 

Singing,  "  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,  pray!" 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers ; 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king,  a  king! 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR    33 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 
His  joy  !  his  last !     Oh,  the  old  man  gray 

Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, 

"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me !  " 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead  ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies  ; 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  or  stain ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 

And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 
Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 

In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"  Vex  not  his  ghost !  " 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind ! 

Howl !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

Line  4.    Loveth  her  ever-soft  voice, 
Line  7.     And  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Line  15.    No  mist  nor  stain  ! 


34  VOICES   OF  THE  NIGHT 

Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 
O  soul !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away ! 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day  ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away ! 
Kyrie,  eleyson! 
Christe,  eleyson  1 


EARLIER  POEMS 

"These  poems  were  written  for  the  most  part  during  my  college 
life,  and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nineteen.  Some  have 
found  their  way  into  schools,  and  seem  to  be  successful.  Others 
lead  a  vagabond  and  precarious  existence  in  the  corners  of  news- 
papers ;  or  have  changed  their  names  and  run  away  to  seek  their 
fortunes  beyond  the  sea.  I  say,  with  the  Bishop  of  Avranches  on 
a  similar  occasion :  '  I  cannot  be  displeased  to  see  these  children  of 
mine,  which  I  have  neglected,  and  almost  exposed,  brought  from 
their  wanderings  in  lanes  and  alleys,  and  safely  lodged,  in 
order  to  go  forth  into  the  world  together  in  a  more  decorous 
garb.'  "  This  note  was  prefixed  by  Mr.  Longfellow  to  the  fol- 
lowing group  of  poems  when  published  in  Voices  of  the  Night. 
The  same  collection  was  retained  in  subsequent  editions  with  only 
slight  textual  variation.  The  forms  given  in  the  foot-notes  are 
those  of  the  edition  of  1839.  In  the  appendix  will  be  found  a 
fuller  collection  of  poems  of  this  class.  "  The  first  five  "  of  the 
following,  Mr.  Longfellow  says  elsewhere  in  a  manuscript  note, 
"  were  written  during  my  last  year  in  college,  in  No.  27  Maine 
Hall,  whose  windows  looked  out  upon  the  pine  groves  to  which 
allusion  is  made  in  Li1  Envoi.'1''  These  five  poems  were  first  pub- 
lished in  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  1824-1825. 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 

WHEN  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'T  is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 

When    forest   glades    are    teeming  with    bright 
forms, 


36  EARLIER  POEMS 

Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 
The  coming-on  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives ; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly-warbled  song 

Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wings 
Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves  along 

The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 

The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  eve  is  born, 
In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o'er-reaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide 

Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April !  many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought, 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 

Line   8.    Conies  through  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wings 
Line  11.    And  when  bright  sunset  fills 


A  UTUMN  37 


AUTUMN. 

WITH  what  a  glory  conies  and  goes  the  year ! 

The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  harbingers 

Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 

Life's  newness,  and  earth's  garniture  spread  out ; 

And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 

Conies  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 

A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 

His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 

A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer, 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned, 
And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, 
Where  Autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  wayside  a-weary.     Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves.     The  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings, 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy  flail. 


38  EARLIER  POEMS 

Oh,  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  leaves, 
Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teach. 

ings. 

He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn  that  Death 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a  tear. 

WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

WHEN  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 

Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 
Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Line  11.    And  through  the  white-thorn  blows  the  gale, 


HYMN  OF   THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS       39 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day  ! 

4 

But  s+ill  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods !  within  your  crowd ; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year, 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETH- 
LEHEM. 

AT   THE   CONSECRATION   OF   PULASKl's    BANNER. 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  following  sentence  in  an  arti- 
cle upon  Count  Casimir  Pulaski  in  the  North  American  Review 
for  April,  1825  :  "  The  standard  of  his  legion  was  formed  of  a 
piece  of  crimson  silk  embroidered  by  the  Moravian  nuns  of  Bethle- 
hem in  Pennsylvania."  The  historical  basis  of  the  poem  is  dis- 
cussed in  a  note  at  the  end  of  this  volume. 

WHEN  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 
Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head  ; 
And  the  censer  burning  swung, 
Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

Line  7.    And  gathered  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 


40  EARLIER  POEMS 

The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 

Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

v 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave  ; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
Guard  it !     God  will  prosper  thee ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

"  Take  thy  banner  !     But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  !     By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him  !  he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 
Spare  him  !  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  ! 

Line  1.    The  blood-red  banner,  that  with  prayer 
Line  14.    The  war-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 


SUNRISE  ON   THE  HILLS  41 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud ! 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ;  bathed  in  light, 

They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height, 

And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through   the   gray  mist  thrust   up  its   shattered 

lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 
Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 
Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

Line  7.    And  the  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 


42  EARLIER  POEMS 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through  thick-leaved   branches,  from  the  dingle 
broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  !     No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

This  and  the  following1  poem  were  written  in  Portland  imme- 
diately after  Mr.  Longfellow  left  college  in  the  autumn  of  1825, 
and  were  published  in  the  Atlantic  Souvenir  for  1827. 

THERE  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south-wind  blows  ; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY  43 

It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast  ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf  ; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandalled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade  ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  endless 

laughter. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the   stern,  strong   wind.     And  here, 

amid 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 
As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.    Hence  gifted  bards 
Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, 
The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 
Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes, 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks 

in, 

Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 
The  distant  lake,  fountains,  and  mighty  trees, 
In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 


44  EARLIER  POEMS 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 
My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature  ;  of  the  heavenly  forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That   stain   the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush   the 

clouds 

When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  tender  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 
And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung, 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.     Her  hair 
Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 
When  twilight  makes   them  brown,  and  on  her 

cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 
With  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath, 
It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 
As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 
Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 
To  have  it  round  us,  and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 
Heard    in    the    still    night,  with    its    passionate 

cadence. 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK. 

ON  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down, 

Line  8.    When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  eye 


BURIAL   OF   THE  MINN1SINK  45 

The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white, 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads0 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain  ; 

Line  2.     At  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 


46  EARLIER  POEMS 

Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 
He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief  ;  they  freed 
Beside  the  'grave  his  battle  steed  ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way . 
To  his  stern  heart !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


L'ENVOI  47 


L'ENVOI. 

This  poem  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1839  and  served  as 
a  poetical  summary  of  the  volume  Voices  of  the  Night,  which  it 
closed,  referring  in  its  three  parts  to  the  three  divisions  of  that 
volume.  See  Introductory  Note  and  also  head-note  to  Earlier 
Poems. 

YE  voices,  that  arose 

After  the  Evening's  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose ! 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 

Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them,  "  Be  of  good  cheer ! " 

Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm, 

That  in  the  groves  of  balm 

Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel's  psalm ! 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar ! 

Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 
But  speaking  from  death's  frost, 
Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 
Amid  the  chills  and  damps 
Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps  ! 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

Two  years  after  the  appearance  of  Voices  of  the 
Night,  Mr.  Longfellow  published  a  second  volume 
of  poems  with  the  title  Ballads  and  other  Poems. 
It  was  issued  December  19,  1841,  and  contained 
all  the  verse  which  he  had  written  in  the  interval 
with  the  important  exception  of  The  Spanish  Stu- 
dent. Besides  the  pieces  included  in  this  division 
in  the  present  edition,  the  original  volume  contained 
two  ballads  translated  from  the  German,  and  also 
The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper  from  the 
Swedish  of  Bishop  TegneV,  which  will  be  found  in 
the  sixth  volume  of  this  series.  It  is  to  be  noted 
that  his  intention  at  one  time  was  to  omit  TegneYs 
poem,  and  to  print  a  thin  volume  mainly  as  a  sort 
of  herald  to  The  Spanish  Student,  which  he  looked 
upon  as  an  important  venture.  "  I  have  two  or  three 
literary  projects,"  he  writes  to  Mr.  Samuel  Ward, 
September  17,  1841 ;  "  foremost  among  which  are 
the  Student  and  the  Skeleton.  I  have  been  think- 
ing this  morning  which  I  shall  bring  out  first. 
The  Skeleton,  with  the  few  other  pieces  I  have  on 
hand,  will,  it  is  true,  make  but  a  meagre  volume. 
But  what  then  ?  It  is  important  to  bring  all  my 
guns  to  bear  now  ;  and  though  they  are  small  ones, 
the  shot  may  take  effect.  Through  the  breach 


50  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

thus  made,  the  Student  may  enter  the  citadel  in 
triumph." 

The  inception  of  the  leading  ballad  in  the  volume 
may  be  traced  through  several  steps.  "  This  ballad 
was  suggested  to  me,"  Mr.  Longfellow  said  in  an 
introductory  note  to  the  volume  under  considera- 
tion, "while  riding  on  the  sea-shore  at  Newport. 
A  year  or  two  previous  a  skeleton  had  been  dug 
up  at  Fall  River,  clad  in  broken  and  corroded 
armor ;  and  the  idea  occurred  to  me  of  connecting 
it  with  the  Round  Tower  at  Newport,  generally 
known  hitherto  as  the  Old  Windmill,  though  now 
claimed  by  the  Danes  as  a  work  of  their  early  an- 
cestors." In  illustration  of  this  claim  he  quotes  a 
passage  from  Professor  Rafn  in  the  Memoires  de 
la  Societ^  Royale  des  Antiquaires  du  Nord,  and 
then  adds :  "I  will  not  enter  into  a  discussion  of 
the  point.  It  is  sufficiently  well  established  for 
the  purpose  of  a  ballad  ;  though  doubtless  many  a 
citizen  of  Newport,  who  has  passed  his  days  within 
sight  of  the  Round  Tower,  will  be  ready  to  exclaim 
with  Sancho :  '  God  bless  me !  did  I  not  warn  you 
to  have  a  care  of  what  you  are  doing,  for  that  it 
was  nothing  but  a  windmill;  and  nobody  could 
mistake  it,  but  one  who  had  the  like  in  his  head.'  " 
It  was  after  this  visit  to  Newport,  made  in  1838, 
that  he  made  this  entry  in  his  diary :  — 

"  May  24,  1839.  Felton  comes  and  reads  me 
his  [translation  of]  Menzel's  History  of  German 
Literature.  A  vigorous,  live  book,  and  most  faith- 
fully done  into  English.  Told  him  of  my  plan  of 
a  heroic  poem  on  the  Discovery  of  America  by  the 
Northmen,  in  which  the  Round  Tower  at  Newport 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  51 

and  the  Skeleton  in  Armor  have  a  part  to  play. 
The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  like  it." 

After  he  decided  to  publish  Voices  of  the  Night 
his  mind  was  teeming  with  literary  plans,  and 
among  other  projects  recorded  in  his  diary  is  one 
without  comment :  "  The  Saga  of  Hakon  Jarl ;  a 
poem,"  which  was  possibly  the  heroic  poem  which 
had  floated  before  him,  though  Hakon  Jarl  was  not 
a  creation  of  Mr.  Longfellow's.  A  few  weeks  later 
came  a  terrible  storm  on  the  coast,  with  the  wreck 
among  others  of  the  schooner  Hesperus  on  the  reef 
called  Norman's  Woe.  "  I  must  write  a  ballad 
upon  this,"  exclaims  the  poet  in  his  diary  ;  "  also 
two  others,  —  The  Skeleton  in  Armor  and  Sir 
Humphrey  Gilbert"  It  may  also  be  noted  that 
in  the  poem  last  written  and  then  attracting  some 
criticism,  Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year,  he 
had  approached  the  ballad  form,  while  in  Hyperion, 
then  bringing  him  an  echo  in  comment  and  criti- 
cism, he  had  made  some  spirited  translations  of 
German  ballads.  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 
was  written  at  once,  but  it  is  not  stated  just  when 
he  wrote  The  Skeleton  in  Armor.  It  is  probable, 
however,  that  he  wrote  it  shortly  after,  but  kept  it 
to  himself  for  many  months,  not  quite  sure  if  he 
had  succeeded.  At  any  rate,  there  is  an  entry  in 
his  diary,  January  13, 1840,  which  hints  at  the  way 
his  mind  was  working,  for  he  records,  d  propos  of 
a  visit  from  W.  H.  Prescott :  "  Prescott  seems  to 
doubt  whether  I  can  imitate  successfully  the  Old 
English  ballad." 

Finally,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  upon  receiving 
Uhland'§  Das  Gliick  von  Edenhall,  he  translated 


52  BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

it  in  ballad  form,  and  immediately  after  writes 
to  his  father  :  "I  have  been  hard  at  work,  —  for 
the  most  part  wrapped  up  in  my  own  dreams. 
Have  written  a  translation  of  a  German  ballad,  and 
prepared  for  the  press  another  original  ballad, 
which  has  been  lying  by  me  some  time.  It  is  called 
The  Skeleton  in  Armor^  and  is  connected  with  the 
old  Round  Tower  at  Newport.  This  skeleton  in 
armor  really  exists.  It  was  dug  up  near  Fall 
River,  where  I  saw  it  some  two  years  ago.  I  sup- 
pose it  to  be  the  remains  of  one  of  the  old  North- 
ern sea-rovers,  who  came  to  this  country  in  the 
tenth  century.  Of  course  I  make  the  tradition 
myself  ;  and  I  think  I  have  succeeded  in  giving 
the  whole  a  Northern  air.  You  shall  judge  soon, 
as  it  will  probably  be  in  the  next  Knickerbocker  ; 
and  it  is  altogether  too  long  to  copy  in  a  letter.  I 
hope  it  may  be  successful,  though  I  fear  that  those 
who  only  glance  at  it  will  not  fully  comprehend  it ; 
and  I  must  say  to  the  benevolent  reader,  as  Rud- 
beck  says  in  the  preface  of  his  Atlantica  (a  work 
of  only  2500  folio  pages),  '  if  thou  hast  not  leisure 
to  study  it  through  ten  times,  then  do  not  read  it 
once,  —  especially  if  thou  wilt  utter  thy  censure 
thereof.'  A  modest  request !  " 

A  week  later  he  writes  to  his  father:  "  The 
Skeleton  in  Armor  will  appear  in  the  January 
number  of  the  Knickerbocker.  My  friend  Ward, 
to  whom  I  sent  it,  is  very  enthusiastic  about  it ; 
which  I  am  not,  though  I  am  very  well  satisfied 
with  it.  You  will  be  amused  to  see  how  my  friend's 
heart  and  head  take  fire  and  blaze  away  together. 
He  writes  :  '  I  could  not  forbear  reading  it  to  Hal* 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  53 

leek  (the  poet)  this  morning.  His  bright  eyes 
glistened  like  diamonds,  and  he  read  it  through 
aloud  himself  with  delight.  He  thanked  me 
warmly  for  the  pleasure  it  had  afforded  him  ; 
said  it  placed  you  extremely  high,  and  was  supe- 
rior to  any  of  your  previous  efforts.  It  will  spread 
like  wildfire  over  the  country  and  richly  reward 
you.  Halleck  remarked  there  was  nothing  like  it 
in  the  language !  '  In  order  not  to  be  led  away 
by  this,  you  ought  to  know  the  glowing  and  san- 
guine temperament  of  my  friend.  You  must  not 
expect  to  find  the  poem  so  fine  as  he  does.  He  has 
associations  with  Newport  which  make  him  invest 
it  with  a  charm  which  it  will  not  have  in  the  eyes 
of  others.  I  think,  however,  that  it  is  striking, 
and  in  its  conception,  perhaps,  unique,  —  at  least  in 
our  country.  It  is  a  national  ballad,  as  The  Wreck 
of  the  Hesperus  is." 

The  ballad  was  published  in  the  Knickerbocker 
for  January,  1841,  with  marginal  notes  after  the 
manner  of  Coleridge's  The  Ancient  Mariner,  but 
in  reprinting  it  in  his  volume  the  poet  wisely  dis- 
carded an  apparatus,  which,  unlike  Coleridge's,  was 
merely  a  running  index  to  the  poem.  In  the  notes 
to  this  volume  the  reader  will  find  the  ballad 
printed  as  in  the  magazine. 

Although  he  placed  The  Skeleton  in  Armor  first 
in  the  volume,  as  being  the  longer  and  more  impor- 
tant poem,  Mr.  Longfellow  evidently  was  chiefly 
conscious  of  a  new  departure  in  his  art  when  he 
wrote  the  second  ballad  in  the  collection.  "  I  have 
broken  ground  in  a  new  field,"  he  writes  to  Mr. 
Greene  ;  "  namely,  ballads  ;  beginning  with  the 


54  BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Wreck  of  the  Schooner  Hesperus,  on  the  reef  of 
Norman's  Woe,  in  the  great  storm  of  a  fortnight 
ago.  I  shall  send  it  to  some  newspaper.  I  think 
I  shall  write  more.  The  national  ballad  is  a  vir. 
gin  soil  here  in  New  England  ;  and  there  are  great 
materials.  Besides,  I  have  a  great  notion  of  work- 
ing upon  the  people's  feelings.  I  am  going  to 
have  it  printed  on  a  sheet,  with  a  coarse  picture  on 
it.  I  desire  a  new  sensation  and  a  new  set  of  crit- 
ics. Nat.  Hawthorne  is  tickled  with  the  idea. 
Felton  laughs  and  says,  '  I  would  n't.'  "  Nor  did 
he,  in  spite  of  Hawthorne's  assurance  that  he  would 
distribute  the  ballads  to  every  skipper  of  every 
craft  he  boarded  in  his  custom-house  duties,  so  as 
to  hear  their  criticisms.  Instead,  he  sent  it  to 
Park  Benjamin's  mammoth  sheet,  The  New  World, 
where  it  appeared,  January  14,  1840.  Of  the  ac- 
tual composition  of  the  ballad  he  writes  as  follows 
in  his  diary,  under  date  of  December  30,  1839  :  — 

"  I  wrote  last  evening  a  notice  of  Allston's 
poems.  After  which  I  sat  till  twelve  o'clock  by 
my  fire,  smoking,  when  suddenly  it  came  into  my 
mind  to  write  the  Ballad  of  the  Schooner  Hespe- 
rus ;  which  I  accordingly  did.  Then  I  went  to 
bed,  but  could  not  sleep.  New  thoughts  were  run- 
ning in  my  mind,  and  I  got  up  to  add  them  to  the 
ballad.  It  was  three  by  the  clock.  I  then  went 
to  bed  and  fell  asleep.  I  feel  pleased  with  the  bal- 
lad. It  hardly  cost  me  an  effort.  It  did  not  come 
into  my  mind  by  lines  but  by  stanzas." 

The  foot-note  readings  are  those  of  the  first  edi- 
tion of  Ballads  and  other  Poems. 


BALLADS   AND   OTHER  POEMS 
THE  SKELETON  IN  AKMOR. 

"  SPEAK  !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse ; 
For  this  I  sought  thee. 


56  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon  ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led  ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 


57 


Draining  the  oaken  pail, 
Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

**  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 


58  BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

u  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR  59 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 

Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
'  Death  ! '  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

'  Death  without  quarter ! ' 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 
Through  the  black  water  ! 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden,  — 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  seaward. 

t 

"  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother  ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 


60  BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful ! 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal !  to  the  Northland  !  skoal !  " 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

IT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 


THE    WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS       61 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sail6r, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see ! " 
The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

*  Come  hither !    come  hither !    my  little  daugh- 
ter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow." 


lane  2.    With  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 

Line  3.    And  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

lane  6.    Had  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 


62  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast  ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast  !  "  —  • 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"  O  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !  " 

"  O  father  !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 
A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 


Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  sav£d  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Line  18.    With  his  face  to  the  skies, 


THE    WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS        63 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 


64  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe ! 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

In  the  autumn  of  1839  Mr.  Longfellow  was  writing  psalms,  as 
seen  above,  and  he  notes  in  his  diary,  October  5th:  "  Wrote  a 
new  Psalm  of  Life.  It  is  The  Village  Blacksmith."  A  year 
later  he  was  thinking  of  ballads,  and  he  writes  to  his  father, 
October  25th  :  ' '  My  pen  has  not  been  very  prolific  of  late  ;  only 
a  little  poetry  has  trickled  from  it.  There  will  be  a  kind  of 
ballad  on  a  Blacksmith  in  the  next  Knickerbocker  [November, 
1840],  which  you  may  consider,  if  you  please,  as  a  song  in  praise 
of  your  ancestor  at  Newbury  [the  first  Stephen  Longfellow]." 
It  is  hardly  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  the  form  of  the  poem 
had  been  changed  during  the  year.  The  suggestion  of  the  poem 
came  from  the  smithy  which  the  poet  passed  daily,  and  which 
stood  beneath  a  horse-chestnut  tree  not  far  from  his  house  in 
Cambridge.  The  tree  was  removed  in  1876,  against  the  protests 
of  Mr.  Longfellow  and  others,  on  the  ground  that  it  imperilled 
drivers  of  heavy  loads  who  passed  under  it.  The  correction  in 
the  twenty-third  line  is  not  to  the  earliest  form.  It  is  one  sug- 
gested during  Mr.  Longfellow's  life-time,  and  accepted  by  him 
as  a  desirable  one,  but  not  actually  made  in  any  edition.  Mr. 
Longfellow  thought  the  original  form  had  become  fixed,  and 
could  not  well  be  altered. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 
His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 


THE   VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH  65 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 
Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Line  15.    And  watch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 


66  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


ENDYMION. 

THE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars ; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between,, 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 
Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 
Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 


ENDYMION  67 

Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes,  —  the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity,  — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 

And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 

Of  him  who  slumbering  lies. 

O  weary  hearts !  O  slumbering  eyes ! 
O  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds,  —  as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"  Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  ?  " 


68  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

No  hay  pajaros  en  los  nidos  de  antaiio. 

Spanish  Proverb. 

THE  sun  is  bright,  —  the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  bluebird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 

Where,  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new ;  —  the  buds,  the  leaves. 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves  ;  — - 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay  ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For  oh,  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth, 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 


GOD'S-ACRE  69 

THE  RAINY  DAY. 

Written  at  the  old  home  in  Portland. 

THE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


GOD'S-ACRE. 

Written  October  23,  1841.  "  I  would  like  to  be  burned,  not 
buried,"  Mr.  Longfellow  notes,  and  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Ward,  who 
had  the  poem  in  his  hands  for  publication,  he  writes  :  "I  here 
add  a  concluding  stanza  for  Grod's-Acre,  which  I  think  improves 
the  piece  and  rounds  it  off  more  perfectly  than  before,  —  the 
thought  no  longer  resting  on  the  cold  furrow,  but  on  the  waving 
harvest  beyond :  — 

Green  gate  of  Paradise  !  let  in  the  sun ! 

Unclose  thy  portals,  tliat  we  may  behold 
Those  fields  elysian,  where  bright  rivers  run, 

And  waving  harvests  bend  like  seas  of  gold. 


70  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

The  poem  was  published  -with  this  additional  stanza  in  The  Dem- 
ocratic Review  for  December,  1841,  but  when  it  came  to  be  added 
to  the  volume  the  stanza  was  dropped. 

I  LIKE  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's-Acre  !     It  is  just  ; 

it  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 

And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God's-Acre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas !  no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 
With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed  on 
earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  the 
sod, 

And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ; 
This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  grow. 


TO   THE  RIVER   CHARLES  71 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 

"  I  wrote  the  other  evening  [October,  1841]  a  song  to  the  River 
Charles  ;  quite  successful ;  though,  as  it  is  local,  I  think  it  had 
better  appear  first  in  the  volume,  not  in  any  magazine."  But  Mr. 
Longfellow  yielded  to  the  urging  of  his  correspondent,  Mr.  Ward, 
and  consented  to  the  appearance  of  the  poem  in  Park  Benjamin's 
paper,  The  New  World.  Mr.  Benjamin,  however,  disposed  of  this 
and  another  poem  sent  at  the  same  time  to  ' '  respectable  sources, ' ' 
giving  as  one  reason :  "  I  do  not  like  the  poems  so  well  as  many 
others  you  have  written.  They  are  by  no  means  so  worthy  of 
your  genius  as  Excelsior,  a  magnificent  piece,  which  I  regret  hav- 
ing parted  with."  The  poem  appeared  in  The  Ladies'  Companion, 
January,  1842.  The  three  friends  hinted  at  in  the  eighth  stanza 
were  Charles  Sumner,  Charles  Folsom,  and  Charles  Amory. 

HIVER  !  that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 

Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  fmdest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  Eiver  ! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver  ; 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 


72  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 
When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 
Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  mai'gin  dear. 

More  than  this ;  —  thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried  ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

'T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


BLIND  BARTIMEUS  73 


BLIND  BARTIMEUS. 

Written  November  3,  1841.  Mr.  Longfellow  writes  under  that 
date  to  Mr.  Ward:  "I  was  reading  this  morning,  just  after 
breakfast,  the  tenth  chapter  of  Mark,  in  Greek,  the  last  seven 
verses  of  which  contain  the  story  of  blind  Bartimeus,  and  always 
seemed  to  me  remarkable  for  their  beauty.  At  once  the  whole 
scene  presented  itself  to  my  mind  in  lively  colors,  —  the  walls  of 
Jericho,  the  cold  wind  through  the  gate-way,  the  ragged,  blind 
beggar,  his  shrill  cry,  the  tumultuous  crowd,  the  serene  Christ, 
the  miracle  ;  and  these  things  took  the  form  I  have  given  them 
above,  where,  perforce,  I  have  retained  the  striking  Greek  ex- 
pressions of  entreaty,  comfort,  and  healing  ;  though  I  am  well 
aware  that  Greek  was  not  spoken  at  Jericho.  The  poem  is  for 
your  private  eye.  It  must  see  the  light  first  in  the  volume,  which 
is  going  bravely  on.  I  think  I  shall  add  to  the  title  '  supposed  to 
be  written  by  a  monk  of  the  Middle  Ages,'  as  it  is  in  the  legend 
style." 

BLIND  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 

Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd  ;  —  he  hears  a  breath 

Say,  "  It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  !  " 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 

'Irjcrov, 


The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 
But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 
The  beggar's  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 
Until  they  say,  "  He  calleth  thee  1  " 

i'  eyetpat,  (fxavd  ffef 


Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  "  What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands  ? 


74  BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  he  replies,  "  Oh,  give  me  light ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight." 
And  Jesus  answers,  "YTraye- 
'H  Triaris  aov  creVwKe  ere  / 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 
In  darkness  and  in  misery, 
Recall  those  mighty  Voices  Three, 

'I^crov,  IXerjcrov  //.e  / 
(Dapcref  eyeipat,  vTraye/ 
'H  Trams  crov  crecrajKe  ere/ 


THE   GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 

Mr.  Longfellow  writing  to  Mr.  Ward,  November  3,  1841,  says; 
"I  shall  send  him  [Mr.  Benjamin]  a  new  poem,  called  simply 
Fennel,  which  I  do  not  copy  here  on  account  of  its  length.  It  is 
as  good,  perhaps,  as  Excelsior.  Hawthorne,  who  is  passing  the 
night  with  me,  likes  it  better."  He  afterward  changed  the  title 
to  that  which  the  poem  now  bears.  This  was  the  other  of  the 
two  pieces  which  Mr.  Benjamin  valued  lightly.  It  was  printed 
in  Graham's  Magazine,  January,  1842. 

FILLED  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
And  chant  a  melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers,  —  no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 


THE   GOBLET  OF  LIFE  75 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 
Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 
Are  running  all  to  waste. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 
With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press, 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give ! 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 


76  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe, 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 
He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 
To  see  his  foeman's  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light,  —  for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

O  suffering,  sad  humanity ! 

0  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried  ! 

1  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Where  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf  ! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 

The  alarm,  —  the  struggle,  —  the  relief, 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


MAIDENHOOD  77 


MAIDENHOOD. 

When  writing  to  his  father  of  the  appearance  of  his  new  vol- 
ume of  poems,  Mr.  Long-fellow  said :  "I  think  the  last  two 
pieces  the  best,  —  perhaps  as  good  as  anything  I  have  written. ' ' 
These  pieces  were  the  following  and  Excelsior.  Maidenhood 
was  published  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger  for  January, 
1842. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 


78  BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 

Oh,  thou  child  of  many  prayers ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  —  Life  hath  snares ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 


EXCELSIOR  79 

Oh,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  original  manuscript  of  Excelsior,  showing  the  several 
drafts  and  interlineations,  is  preserved  in  the  library  of  Harvard 
University.  It  was  written  on  the  back  of  a  note  from  Mr.  Sum- 
ner,  and  is  dated  at  the  close  :  "  September  28,  1841.  Half  past 
3  o'clock,  morning1.  Now  to  bed."  The  suggestion  of  the  poem 
came  to  Mr.  Longfellow  from  a  scrap  of  newspaper,  a  part  of 
the  heading  of  one  of  the  New  York  journals,  bearing  the  seal 
of  the  State,  —  a  shield,  with  a  rising  sun,  and  the  motto  Ex- 
celsior. The  intention  of  the  poem  was  intimated  in  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Longfellow  written  some  time  after  to  Mr.  C.  K.  Tuck- 
erman:  — 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  your  note  in  regard  to  the 
poem  Excelsior  and  very  willingly  give  you  my  intention  in  writ- 
ing it.  This  was  no  more  than  to  display,  in  a  series  of  pictures, 
the  life  of  a  man  of  genius,  resisting  all  temptations,  laying  aside 
all  fears,  heedless  of  all  warnings,  and  pressing  right  on  to  ac- 
complish his  purpose.  His  motto  is  Excelsior — 'higher.'  He 
passes  through  the  Alpine  village  —  through  the  rough,  cold  paths 
of  the  world  —  where  the  peasants  cannot  understand  him,  and 
where  his  watchword  is  in  an  '  unknown  tongue.'  He  disregards 
the  happiness  of  domestic  peace  and  sees  the  glaciers  —  his  fate 
—  before  him.  He  disregards  the  warning  of  the  old  man's  wis- 
dom and  the  fascinations  of  woman's  love.  He  answers  to  all, 
'  Higher  yet !  '  The  monks  of  St.  Bernard  are  the  represen- 
tatives of  religious  forms  and  ceremonies,  and  with  their  oft- 
repeated  prayer  mingles  the  sound  of  his  voice,  telling  them  there 
is  something  higher  than  forms  and  ceremonies.  Filled  with 
these  aspirations,  he  perishes  ;  without  having  reached  the  per- 
fection he  longed  for;  and  the  voice  heard  in  the  air  is  the  promise 


80  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

of  immortality  and  progress  ever  upward.  You  will  perceive  that 
Excelsior,  an  adjective  of  the  comparative  degree,  is  used  ad- 
verbially ;  a  use  justified  by  the  best  Latin  writers. "  This  he 
afterwards  found  to  be  a  mistake,  and  explained  excelsior  as  the 
last  word  of  the  phrase  Scopus  meus  est  excelsior. 

Five  years  after  writing  this  poem,  Mr.  Longfellow  made  the 
following  entry  in  his  diary :  "  December  8,  1846.  Looking  over 
Brainard's  poems,  I  find,  in  a  piece  called  The  Mocking-Bird,  this 
passage :  — 

Now  his  note 

Mounts  to  the  play-ground  of  the  lark,  high  up 

Quite  to  the  sky.     And  then  again  it  falls 

As  a  lost  star  falls  down  into  the  marsh. 

Now,  when  in  Excelsior  I  said  :  — 

A  voice  fell  like  a  falling  star, 

Brainard's  poem  was  not  in  my  mind,  nor  had  I  in  all  probability 
ever  read  it.  Felton  said  at  the  time  that  the  same  image  was  in 
Euripides,  or  Pindar,  I  forget  which.  Of  a  truth,  one  cannot 
strike  a  spade  into  the  soil  of  Parnassus,  without  disturbing  the 
bones  of  some  dead  poet." 

In  the  notes  at  the  end  of  this  volume  will  be  found  an  an- 
alysis of  the  poem  by  the  editor,  based  upon  the  changes  made 
by  the  poet  in  original  drafts.  Dr.  Holmes  remarks  of  Excelsior 
that  ' '  the  repetition  of  the  aspiring  exclamation  which  gives  its 
name  to  the  poem,  lifts  every  stanza  a  step  higher  than  the  one 
which  preceded  it." 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 


EXCELSIOR  81 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Try  not  the  Pass  !  "  the  old  man  said; 

"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  I " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Oh  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half -buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 


82  BALLADS  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

IN  the  spring  of  1842  Mr.  Longfellow  obtained 
leave  of  absence  from  college  duties  for  six  months 
and  went  abroad  to  try  the  virtues  of  the  water-cure 
at  Marienberg  on  the  Rhine.  At  St.  Goar  he 
made  an  acquaintance  with  Ferdinand  Freiligrath, 
the  poet,  which  ripened  into  a  life-long  friendship. 
It  was  to  this  friend  that  he  wrote  shortly  after  his 
return  to  America :  — 

"  Let  me  take  up  the  golden  thread  of  my  ad- 
ventures where  I  last  dropped  it,  that  is  to  say  in 
London.  I  passed  a  very  agreeable  fortnight  with 
Dickens.  .  .  .  Taking  reluctant  leave  of  London, 
I  went  by  railway  to  Bath,  where  I  dined  with 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  a  rather  ferocious  critic, 
—  the  author  of  five  volumes  of  Imaginary  Con- 
versations. The  next  day  brought  me  to  Bristol, 
where  I  embarked  in  the  Great  Western  steamer 
for  New  York.  We  sailed  (or  rather,  paddled) 
out  in  the  very  teeth  of  a  violent  west  wind,  which 
blew  for  a  week,  —  '  Frau  die  alte  sass  gekehrt 
riiclcwarts  nach  Osten '  with  a  vengeance.  We 
had  a  very  boisterous  passage.  I  was  not  out  of 
my  berth  more  than  twelve  hours  for  the  first 
twelve  days.  I  was  in  the  forward  part  of  the  ves- 
sel, where  all  the  great  waves  struck  and  broke 


84  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY 

with  voices  of  thunder.  There,  '  cribbed,  cabined, 
and  confined,'  I  passed  fifteen  days.  During  this 
time  I  wrote  seven  poems  on  slavery ;  I  meditated 
upon  them  in  the  stormy,  sleepless  nights,  and  wrote 
them  down  with  a  pencil  in  the  morning.  A  small 
window  in  the  side  of  the  vessel  admitted  light 
into  my  berth,  and  there  I  lay  on  my  back  and 
soothed  my  soul  with  songs.  I  send  you  some 
copies." 

He  had  published  the  poems  at  once  on  his  ar- 
rival in  America  in  December,  1842,  in  a  thin 
volume  of  thirty-one  pages  in  glazed  paper  covers, 
adding  to  the  seven  an  eighth,  previously  written, 
poem.  It  is  possible  that  his  immediate  impulse  to 
write  came  from  his  recent  association  with  Dick- 
ens, whose  American  Notes,  with  its  "  grand  chap- 
ter on  slavery,"  he  speaks  of  having  read  in  Lon- 
don. The  book  with  its  stringent  reflections  on 
American  politics  may  easily  have  given  rise  also 
to  talk  with  its  writer.  But  Mr.  Samuel  Longfel- 
low in  his  Life  says  of  his  brother :  "  As  a  young 
man  he  had  been  accustomed  to  read  in  his  father's 
house  the  numbers  of  Benjamin  Lundy's  Genius 
of  Universal  Emancipation.  While  in  Brunswick 
he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  a  drama  on 
the  subject  of  Toussaint  1'Ouverture,  '  that  thus  I 
may  do  something  in  my  humble  way  for  the  great 
cause  of  Negro  emancipation.'  .  .  .  The  book  threw 
the  author's  influence  on  the  side  against  Slavery ; 
and  at  that  time  it  was  a  good  deal  simply  to  take 
that  unpopular  side,  publicly.  With  the  Abolition- 
ist leaders  he  was  not  acquainted.  To  his  pacific 
temper,  constitutionally  averse  to  controversy  and 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  85 

'  disliking  everything  violent,'  these  brave  and  un- 
relenting fighters  for  justice,  humanity,  and  liberty 
seemed  often  harsh,  violent,  and  dictatorial.  He 
found  more  congenial  the  earnestness  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Sumner,  who  was  beginning  that  career  of  po- 
litical anti-slavery  activity  which  ended  only  with 
his  death,  but  of  whom  one  of  the  Abolitionists  de- 
clared in  the  heat  of  his  discourse  that  '  Charles 
Sumner  was  a  greater  enemy  of  the  slave  than  the 
slave-holders  themselves.'  " 

The  book  naturally  received  attention  out  of  all 
proportion  to  its  size,  and  it  may  be  added,  its  lit- 
erary importance.  It  was  impossible  for  one  at  that 
time  to  range  himself  on  one  side  or  other  of  the 
great  controversy  without  inviting  criticism  not  so 
much  of  literary  art  as  of  ethical  position.  To  his 
father,  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  :  "  How  do  you  like 
the  Slavery  Poems  ?  I  think  they  make  an  impres- 
sion ;  I  have  received  many  letters  about  them, 
which  I  will  send  to  you  by  the  first  good  oppor- 
tunity. Some  persons  regret  that  I  should  have 
written  them,  but  for  my  own  part  I  am  glad  of 
what  I  have  done.  My  feelings  prompted  me,  and 
my  judgment  approved,  and  still  approves." 

The  volume  was  introduced  by  the  following  pas- 
sage from  Massinger  :  — 

The  noble  horse, 

That,  in  his  fiery  youth,  from  his  wide  nostrils 
Neighed  courage  to  his  rider,  and  brake  through 
Groves  of  opposed  pikes,  bearing  his  lord 
Safe  to  triumphant  victory,  old  or  wounded, 
Was  set  at  liberty  and  freed  from  service. 
The  Athenian  mules,  that  from  the  quarry  drew 
Marble,  hewed  for  the  Temple  of  the  Gods, 
The  great  work  ended,  were  dismissed  and  fed 


86  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY 

At  the  public  cost ;  nay,  faithful  dogs  have  found 
Their  sepulchres  ;  but  man,  to  man  more  cruel, 
Appoints  no  end  to  the  sufferings  of  his  slave. 

This  note  also  was  prefixed  to  the  little  volume. 

"  The  following  poenis,  with  one  exception  [  The 
Warning],  were  written  at  sea,  in  the  latter  part 
of  October,  1842.  I  had  not  then  heard  of  Dr. 
Channing's  death.  Since  that  event,  the  poem  ad- 
dressed to  him  is  no  longer  appropriate.  I  have 
decided,  however,  to  let  it  remain  as  it  was  written, 
in  testimony  of  my  admiration  for  a  great  and  good 
man." 


POEMS   ON   SLAVERY 
TO  WILLIAM  E.   CHANNING. 

THE  pages  of  thy  book  I  read, 

And  as  I  closed  each  one, 
My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

"  Servant  of  God  !  well  done  !  " 

Well  done  !  Thy  words  are  great  and  bold 

At  times  they  seem  to  me, 
Like  Luther's,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Half -battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 

The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 
The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 

Insult  humanity. 

A  voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 

Speaking  in  tones  of  might, 
Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 

To  John  in  Patrnos,  "  Write  !  " 

Write  !  and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale  ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse, 
This  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 

This  dread  Apocalypse ! 


POEMS   ON  SLAVERY 


THE  SLAVE'S   DREAM. 

BESIDE  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand  ; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand. 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 

He  saw  his  Native  Laud. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 

The  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode  ; 
And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain  road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand ; 
They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks, 

They  held  him  by  the  hand !  — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 
His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  stee] 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 
The  bright  flamingoes  flew ; 


THE   GOOD  PART  89 

From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 
O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 

Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 
And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyena  scream, 
And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty ; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free, 
That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day  ; 
For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of  Sleeps 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away  ! 

THE   GOOD  PART, 

THAT    SHALL    NOT   BE   TAKEN   AWAY. 

SHE  dwells  by  Great  Kenhawa's  side, 

In  valleys  green  and  cool ; 
And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 

Are  in  the  village  school. 


90  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 
That  robes  the  hills  above, 

Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 
All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes ; 

Subduing  e'en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 
Of  One  who  came  to  save  ; 

To  cast  the  captive's  chains  aside 
And  liberate  the  slave. 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 
When  all  men  shall  be  free; 

And  musical,  as  silver  bells, 
Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty, 
She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 

And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 
To  break  the  iron  bands 

Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 
And  labored  in  her  lands. 

Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL   SWAMP        91 

While  she,  in  raeek  humility, 
Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace  ; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


THE   SLAVE   IN   THE   DISMAL   SWAMP. 

IN  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  hunted  Negro  lay ; 
He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a  horse's  tramp 

And  a  bloodhound's  distant  bay. 

Where  will-o'-the-wisps  and  glow-worms  shine, 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake ; 
Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake  ; 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  heart  would  dare, 
On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 

Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame  ; 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face  ; 
On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 
And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 

Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 


92  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY 

All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair, 

All  things  were  glad  and  free ; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 
With  songs  of  Liberty ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

From  the  morning  of  his  birth ; 
On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a  flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth  ! 


LOUD  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David  ! 
He,  a  Negro  and  enslaved, 
Sang  of  Israel's  victory, 
Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 
In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  hear, 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion ; 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad, 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 


THE   WITNESSES  93 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 
Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen, 
And  an  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas !  what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel  ? 
And  what  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night  ? 


THE  WITNESSES. 

IN  Ocean's  wide  domains, 
Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 
Deeper  than  plummet  lies, 

Float  ships,  with  all  their  crews, 
No  more  to  sink  nor  rise. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

Whose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 

These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves  ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

"  We  are  the  Witnesses !  " 

Line  1C.    No  more  to  sink  or  rise. 


94  POEMS  ON  SLAVERY 

Within  Earth's  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men's  lives  ; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains, 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 
In  deserts  makes  its  prey ; 

Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  school-boys  from  their  play! 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride ; 
The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide ! 

These  are  the  woes  of  Slaves ; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss ; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 

"  We  are  the  Witnesses !  " 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL. 

THE  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 
Lay  moored  with  idle  sail ; 

He  waited  for  the  rising  moon, 
And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 
And  all  her  listless  crew 

Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 
Into  the  still  bayou. 

Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice, 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time, 


THE   QUADROON  GIRL  95 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a  world  of  crime. 

The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch, 

Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow ; 
The  Slaver's  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 

He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  "  My  ship  at  anchor  rides 

In  yonder  broad  lagoon ; 
I  only  wait  the  evening  tides, 

And  the  rising:  of  the  moon." 


o 


Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude, 
Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A  Quadroon  maiden  stood. 

Her  eyes  were  large,  and  full  of  light, 
Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare ; 

No  garment  she  wore  save  a  kirtle  bright, 
And  her  own  long,  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a  smile 

As  holy,  meek,  and  faint, 
As  lights  in  some  cathedral  aisle 

The  features  of  a  saint. 

"  The  soil  is  barren,  —  the  farm  is  old," 
The  thoughtful  planter  said ; 

Line  15.    Her  eyes  were,  like  a  falcon's,  gray, 
Line  17.    No  garment  she  wore  save  a  kirtle  gay, 


96  POEMS   ON  SLAVERY 

Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver's  gold, 
And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 

With  such  accursed  gains : 
For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 

Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 

But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak ; 

He  took  the  glittering  gold ! 
Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden's  cheek, 

Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 
To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 

In  a  strange  and  distant  land ! 


THE  WARNING. 

Written  before  the  voyage  to  Europe,  but  not  printed  until  in> 
eluded  in  Poems  on  Slavery. 

BEWARE  !     The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 

The  lion  in  his  path,  —  when,  poor  and  blind, 

He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no  more, 

Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced  to  grind 

In  prison,  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 

A  pander  to  Philistine  revelry,  — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 
His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  overthrow 


THE    WARNING  97 

Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those  who  made 

A  cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe  ; 
The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  all, 
Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall ! 

There  is  a  poor,  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 

Shorn  of  his  strength  and  bound  in  bonds   of 
steel, 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Commonweal, 

Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liberties 

A  shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies. 


THE   SPANISH  STUDENT 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

THE  attraction  which  Spanish  life  and  literature 
had  for  Mr.  Longfellow  was  very  strong.  His 
diaries  and  letters  indicate,  in  the  eight  months  of 
his  sojourn  in  Spain,  when  he  first  visited  Europe, 
a  constant  delight  in  the  scenes  which  met  his  eye, 
and  he  seemed  to  form  a  special  attachment!  for 
the  Spanish  people.  His  Outre-Mer  reflects  this 
enthusiasm,  and  as  has  already  been  noted,  the 
first  book  which  he  published  was  the  Coplas  de 
Manrique,  while  his  early  essays  in  translation 
were  very  generally  from  the  Spanish. 

His  college  work  both  at  Brunswick  and  at 
Cambridge  not  only  served  to  familiarize  him  with 
the  Spanish  language,  but  gave  him  opportunity 
and  a  scarcely  needed  excuse  for  large  incursions 
into  the  domain  of  Spanish  literature,  especially 
leading  him  to  the  writings  of  Lope  de  Vega,  Cer- 
vantes, and  Calderon.  It  was  while  laboring 
through  the  earlier  Spanish  drama  that  he  noted 
in  his  diary,  March  27,  1840 :  "  In  the  evening  I 
read  El  Mejor  Alcalde  el  Rey,  a  glorious  play  of 
the  great  Lope.  It  is  magnificent,  —  full  of  move- 
ment and  dramatic  power,  and  with  a  tide  of  lan- 
guage like  a  mighty  river.  Read  likewise  the 
Moza  de  Cdntaro,  which  belongs  to  the  capa  y 


100  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

espada  school.  But  these  are  stolen  pleasures,  — \. 
glimpses  into  the  dramatic  paradise,  foretastes. 
To-morrow  I  must  go  back."  So  the  next  day  he 
went  back  to  Torres  Naharro,  finished  his  task, 
and  then  proposed  to  take  up  the  prose  comedian 
Lope  de  Rueda,  "  who,  judging  by  a  peep  here  and 
there,  is  full  of  fun."  And  then  he  added,  as  if 
a  sudden  thought  struck  him  :  "A  good  idea  ! 
Yes,  I  will  write  a  comedy,  —  '  The  Spanish  Stu- 
dent !  '  " 

Whether  or  no  the  actual  theme  of  his  comedy 
as  he  afterward  wrote  it  then  flashed  into  his  mind 
we  cannot  say,  but  from  his  familiarity  with  Cer- 
vantes, one  of  whose  tales  suggested  the  main 
action  of  the  play  and  the  name  of  the  heroine,  it 
is  not  impossible  that  at  this  time  he  conceived  the 
notion  of  a  student,  as  he  had  seen  such  in  Spain, 
for  his  hero  and  a  gypsy -girl  for  heroine.  He  seems 
to  have  allowed  the  subject  to  lie  germinating  in 
his  mind  till  late  in  the  fall  of  the  same  year,  when 
he  made  a  first  draft  of  the  play.  "  I  have  writ- 
ten," he  says  in  a  letter  to  his  father,  December 
20,  1840,  after  speaking  of  The  Skeleton  in 
Armor,  "  a  much  longer  and  more  difficult  poem, 
called  The  Spanish  Student,  —  a  drama  in  five 
acts ;  on  the  success  of  which  I  rely  with  some 
self-complacency.  But  this  is  a  great  secret,  and 
must  not  go  beyond  the  immediate  family  circle  ; 
as  I  do  not  intend  to  publish  it  until  the  glow  of 
composition  has  passed  away,  and  I  can  look  upon 
it  coolly  and  critically.  I  will  tell  you  more  of 
this  by  and  by.  I  hope  you  will  not  think  me 
self-conceited  because  I  parade  all  these  things 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  101 

before  you.     I  remember  that  I  am  writing  to  my 
father." 

There  was  some  consultation  with  Mr.  Ward 
upon  the  project  of  putting  the  play  upon  the  stage, 
but  the  scheme  was  abandoned,  and  Mr.  Longfel- 
low turned  his  thoughts  toward  publication.  As 
has  been  noted  in  the  introduction  to  Ballads  and 
other  Poems  he  regarded  that  book  as  a  sort  of 
avant-coureur  of  The  /Spanish  Student,  but  for  some 
reason  he  decided  to  issue  the  play  first  in  serial 
form,  and  it  appeared  in  the  September,  October, 
and  November  numbers  of  Graham's  Magazine, 
1842,  during  the  author's  absence  in  Europe. 
Possibly  Mr.  Longfellow  desired  to  test  the  public 
in  this  way,  and  also  to  obtain  the  preliminary 
criticism  of  printing.  At  any  rate,  when  the  book 
was  published  in  the  early  summer  of  1843  it 
was  in  a  form  very  carefully  revised  from  the  mag- 
azine text ;  the  alterations  afterwards  made  by  the 
author,  as  may  be  seen  by  the  foot-notes,  were  very 
few  and  inconsiderable.  The  book  bore  upon  the 
title-page  a  motto  from  Burns  :  — 

What  's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what  's  resisted. 

The  following  preface  also  was  published  in  the 
first  edition  :  — 

"  The  subject  of  the  following  play  is  taken  in 
part  from  the  beautiful  tale  of  Cervantes,  La 
Gitanilla.  To  this  source,  however,  I  am  indebted 
for  the  main  incident  only,  the  love  of  a  Spanish 
student  for  a  Gypsy  girl,  and  the  name  of  the  her- 
oine, Preciosa.  I  have  not  followed  the  story  in 
any  of  its  details. 


102  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

"  In  Spain  this  subject  has  been  twice  handled 
dramatically ;  first  by  Juan  Perez  de  Montalvan, 
in  La  Gitanilla,  and  afterwards  by  Antonio  de 
Solis  y  Rivadeneira  in  La  Gitanilla  de  Madrid. 

"  The  same  subject  has  also  been  made  use  of  by 
Thomas  Middleton,  an  English  dramatist  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  His  play  is  called  The  Span/- 
ish  Gypsy.  The  main  plot  is  the  same  as  in  the 
Spanish  pieces ;  but  there  runs  through  it  a  tragic 
underplot  of  the  loves  of  Rodrigo  and  Dona  Clara, 
which  is  taken  from  another  tale  oi  Cervantes,  La 
Fuerza  de  la  Sangre. 

"  The  reader  who  is  acquainted  with  La  Gita- 
nilla of  Cervantes,  and  the  plays  of  Montalvan, 
Solis,  and  Middleton  will  perceive  that  my  treat- 
ment of  the  subject  differs  entirely  from  theirs." 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

VICTORIAN  ) 
HYPOLITO  ) 
THE  COUNT  OF  LARA  ) 


Students  of  Alcald. 

HYPOLITO  ) 


, Gentlemen  of  Madrid. 

DON  CARLOS 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  OF  TOLEDO. 
A  CARDINAL. 

BELTRAN  CRUZADO Count  of  the  Gypsies. 

BARTOLOME  ROMAN A  young  Gypsy. 

THE  PADRE  CURA  OF  GUADARRAMA. 

PEDRO  CRESPO Alcalde. 

PANCHO Alguacil. 

FRANCISCO .Lara's  Servant. 

CHISPA Victorian's  Servant. 

BALTASAR Innkeeper. 

PRECIOSA A  Gypsy  Girl. 

ANGELICA A  poor  Girl. 

MARTINA The  Padre  Cwra's  Niece. 

DOLORES Preciosa's  Maid. 

Gypsies,  Musicians,  etc. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  —  The  COUNT  OF  LARA'S  chambers.  Night.  The 
COUNT  in  his  dressing-gown,  smoking  and  conversing  with  DON 
CARLOS. 

Lara.  You  were  not  at  the  play  to-night,  Don 

Carlos  ; 
How  happened  it  ? 

Don  C.  I  had   engagements  elsewhere. 

Pray  who  was  there  ? 


104  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Lara.  Why,  all  the  town  and  court. 

The  house  was  crowded  ;  and  the  busy  fans 
Among  the  gayly  dressed  and  perfumed  ladies 
Fluttered  like  butterflies  among  the  flowers. 
There  was  the  Countess  of  Medina  Celi  ; 
The  Goblin  Lady  with  her  Phantom  Lover, 
Her  Lindo  Don  Diego ;  Dona  Sol, 
And  Dona  Serafina,  and  her  cousins. 

Don  C.  What  was  the  play  ? 

Lara.  It  was  a  dull  affair  ; 

One  of  those  comedies  in  which  you  see, 
As  Lope  says,  the  history  of  the  world 
Brought  down  from  Genesis  to  the  day  of  Judg- 
ment. 

There  were  three  duels  fought  in  the  first  act, 
Three  gentlemen  receiving  deadly  wounds, 
Laying  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and  saying, 
"  Oh,  I  am  dead  !  "  a  lover  in  a  closet, 
An  old  hidalgo,  and  a  gay  Don  Juan, 
A  Dona  Inez  with  a  black  mantilla, 
Followed  at  twilight  by  an  unknown  lover, 
Who  looks  intently  where  he  knows  she  is  not  ! 

Don  C.  Of  course,  the  Preciosa  danced  to-night  ? 

Lara.   And  never  better.     Every  footstep  fell 
As  lightly  as  a  sunbeam  on  the  water. 
I  think  the  girl  extremely  beautiful. 

Don  (7.  Almost  beyond  the  privilege  of  woman ! 
I  saw  her  in  the  Prado  yesterday. 
Her  step  was  royal,  —  queen-like,  —  and  her  face 
As  beautiful  as  a  saint's  in  Paradise. 

Lara.  May  not  a  saint  fall  from  her  Paradise, 
And  be  no  more  a  saint  ? 

Line  29.    As  beauteous  as  a  saint's  in  Paradise. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  105 

Don  C.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Lara.  Because  I  have  heard  it  said  this  angel 

fell, 

And  though  she  is  a  virgin  outwardly, 
Within  she  is  a  sinner  ;  like  those  panels 
Of  doors  and  altar-pieces  the  old  monks 
Painted  in  convents,  with  the  Virgin  Mary 
On  the  outside,  and  on  the  inside  Venus  ! 

Don  C.    You  do   her  wrong ;    indeed,  you  do 

her  wrong ! 
She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  fair. 

Lara.   How  credulous  you  are  !    Why  look  you, 

friend, 

There  's  not  a  virtuous  woman  in  Madrid, 
In  this  whole  city  !     And  would  you  persuade  me 
That  a  mere  dancing-girl,  who  shows  herself, 
Nightly,  half  naked,  on  the  stage,  for  money, 
And  with  voluptuous  motions  fires  the  blood 
Of  inconsiderate  youth,  is  to  be  held 
A  model  for  her  virtue  ? 

Don  C.  You  forget 

She  is  a  Gypsy  girl. 

Lara.  And  therefore  won 

The  easier. 

Don  C.        Nay,  not  to  be  won  at  all  ! 
The  only  virtue  that  a  Gypsy  prizes 
Is  chastity.     That  is  her  only  virtue. 
Dearer  than  life  she  holds  it.     I  remember 
A  Gypsy  woman,  a  vile,  shameless  bawd, 
Whose  craft  was  to  betray  the  young  and  fair  ; 
And  yet  this  woman  was  above  all  bribes. 
And  when  a  noble  lord,  touched  by  her  beauty, 
The  wild  and  wizard  beauty  of  her  race, 


106  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Offered  her  gold  to  be  what  she  made  others, 
She  turned  upon  him,  with  a  look  of  scorn, 
And  smote  him  in  the  face  ! 

Lara.  And  does  that  prove 

That  Preciosa  is  above  suspicion  ? 

Don  C.  It  proves  a  nobleman  may  be  repulsed 
When  he  thinks  conquest  easy.     I  believe 
That  woman,  in  her  deepest  degradation, 
Holds  something  sacred,  something  undefiled, 
Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher  nature, 
And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  retains 
Some  quenchless  gleam  of  the  celestial  light ! 

Lara.  Yet  Preciosa  would  have  taken  the  gold. 

Don  C.  (rising").  I  do  not  think  so. 

Lara.  I  am  sure  of  it. 

But  why  this  haste  ?    Stay  yet  a  little  longer. 
And  fight  the  battles  of  your  Dulcinea. 

Don  C.     'T  is  late.    I  must  begone,  for  if  I  stay 
You  will  not  be  persuaded. 

Lara.  Yes ;  persuade  me. 

Don  C.  No  one  so  deaf  as  he  who  will  not 
hear! 

Lara.  No  one  so  blind  as  he  who  will  not  see  ! 

Don  C.  And  so  good  night.     I  wish  you  pleas- 
ant dreams, 
And  greater  faith  in  woman.  [Exit. 

Lara.  Greater  faith ! 

I  have  the  greatest  faith  ;  for  I  believe 
Victorian  is  her  lover.     I  believe 
That  I  shall  be  to-morrow ;  and  thereafter 
Another,  and  another,  and  another, 
Chasing  each  other  through  her  zodiac, 
As  Taurus  chases  Aries. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  107 

(Enter  FRANCISCO  with  a  casket.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  speed  with  Preciosa  ? 

Fran.  None,  my  lord. 

She  sends  your  jewels  back,  and  bids  me  tell  you 
She  is  not  to  be  purchased  by  your  gold. 

Lara.  Then  I  will  try  some  other  way  to  win  her. 
Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian  ? 

Fran.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

I  saw  him  at  the  jeweller's  to-day. 

Lara.  What  was  he  doing  there  ? 

Fran.  I  saw  him  buy 

A  golden  ring,  that  had  a  ruby  in  it. 

Lara.  Was  there  another  like  it  ? 

Fran.  One  so  like  it 

I  could  not  choose  between  them. 

Lara.  It  is  well. 

To-morrow  morning  bring  that  ring  to  me. 
Do  not  forget.     Now  light  me  to  my  bed.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  street  in  Madrid.     Enter  CHISPA,  followed  by 
musicians,  with  a  bagpipe,  guitars,  and  other  instruments. 

Chispa.  Abernuncio  Satanas !  and  a  plague  on 
all  lovers  who  ramble  about  at  night  drinking 
the  elements,  instead  of  sleeping  quietly  in  their 
beds.  Every  dead  man  to  his  cemetery,  say  I ; 
and  every  friar  to  his  monastery.  Now,  here 's 
my  master,  Victorian,  yesterday  a  cow-keeper,  and 
to-day  a  gentleman;  yesterday  a  student,  and  to- 
day a  lover ;  and  I  must  be  up  later  than  the 
nightingale,  for  as  the  abbot  sings  so  must  the 
sacristan  respond.  God  grant  he  may  soon  be 
married,  for  then  shall  all  this  serenading  cease. 


108  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Ay,  marry  !  marry !  marry  !  Mother,  what  does 
marry  mean?  It  means  to  spin,  to  bear  children, 
and  to  weep,  my  daughter  !  And,  of  a  truth,  there 
is  something  more  in  matrimony  than  the  wedding- 
ring.  (  To  the  musicians.')  And  now,  gentlemen, 
Pax  vobiscum !  as  the  ass  said  to  the  cabbages. 
Pray,  walk  this  way ;  and  don't  hang  down  your 
heads.  It  is  no  disgrace  to  have  an  old  father  and 
a  ragged  shirt.  Now,  look  you,  you  are  gentlemen 
who  lead  the  life  of  crickets ;  you  enjoy  hunger  by 
day  and  noise  by  night.  Yet,  I  beseech  you,  for 
this  once  be  not  loud,  but  pathetic ;  for  it  is  a 
-erenade  to  a  damsel  in  bed,  and  not  to  the  Man 
in  Ihe  Moon.  Your  object  is  not  to  arouse  and 
terrify,  but  to  soothe  and  bring  lulling  dreams. 
Therefore,  each  shall  not  play  upon  his  instru- 
ment as  if  it  were  the  only  one  in  the  universe, 
but  gently,  and  with  a  certain  modesty,  according 
with  the  others.  Pray,  how  may  I  call  thy  name, 
friend  '.' 

First  Mus.  Geronimo  Gil,  at  your  service. 

Chispa.  Every  tub  smells  of  the  wine  that  is  in 
it.  Pray,  Ger6nimo,  is  not  Saturday  an  unpleas- 
ant day  with  thee  ? 

first  Mus.  Why  so  ? 

Chispa.  Because  I  have  heard  it  said  that  Sat- 
urday is  an  unpleasant  day  with  those  who  have 
but  one  shirt.  Moreover,  I  have  seen  thee  at  the 
tavern,  and  if  thou  canst  run  as  fast  as  thou  canst 
drink,  I  should  like  to  hunt  hares  with  thee. 
What  instrument  is  that  ? 

First  Mus.  An  Aragonese  bagpipe. 

Chispa.  Pray,  art  thou  related  to  the  bagpiper 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  109 

of  Bujalance,  who  asked  a  maravedi  for  playing, 
and  ten  for  leaving  off  ? 

First  Mus.  No,  your  honor. 

Chispa.  I  am  glad  of  it.  What  other  instru- 
ments have  we  ? 

Second  and  Third  Musicians.  We  play  the 
bandurria. 

Chispa.  A  pleasing  instrument.     And  thou  ? 

Fourth  Mus.  The  fife. 

Chispa.  I  like  it ;  it  has  a  cheerful,  soul-stirring 
sound,  that  soars  up  to  my  lady's  window  like  the 
song  of  a  swallow.  And  you  others  ? 

Other  Mus.  We  are  the  singers,  please  your 
honor. 

Chispa.  You  are  too  many.  Do  you  think  we 
are  going  to  sing  mass  in  the  cathedral  of  C6rdova  ? 
Four  men  can  make  but  little  use  of  one  shoe,  and 
1  see  not  how  you  can  all  sing  in  one  song.  But 
follow  me  along  the  garden  wall.  That  is  the  way 
my  master  climbs  to  the  lady's  window.  It  is  by 
the  Vicar's  skirts  that  the  Devil  climbs  into  the 
belfry.  Come,  follow  me,  and  make  no  noise. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  PBECIOSA'S  chamber.      She  stands  at  the  open 
ivindow. 

Prec.  How  slowly  through  the  lilac-scented  air 
Descends  the  tranquil  moon!     Like  thistle-down 
The  vapory  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful  sky ; 
And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of  shade 
The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls  in  song. 
And  hark !    what   songs   of   love,  what   soul-like 

sounds, 
Answer  them  from  below ! 


110  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

SERENADE. 

Stars  of  the  summer  night  ! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light  ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps  1 

Sleeps  ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch  !  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  by  the  balcony. ) 
Viet.  Poor  little  dove  !     Thou  tremblest  like  a 

leaf! 
Free.  I  am  so  frightened !      'T  is  for   thee   I 

tremble ! 

I  hate  to  have  thee  climb  that  wall  by  night ! 
Did  no  one  see  thee  ? 

Viet.  None,  my  love,  but  thou. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  111 

Prec.  'T  is  very  dangerous ;  and  when  thou  art 

gone 

I  chide  myself  for  letting  thee  come  here 
Thus  stealthily  by  night.     Where  hast  thou  been  ? 
Since  yesterday  I  have  no  news  from  thee. 

Viet.  Since  yesterday  I  have  been  in  Alcala. 
Erelong  the  time  will  come,  sweet  Preciosa, 
When  that  dull  distance  shall  no  more  divide  us ; 
And  I  no  more  shall  scale  thy  wall  by  night 
To  steal  a  kiss  from  thee,  as  I  do  now. 

Prec.  An  honest  thief,  to  steal  but  what  thou 
givest. 

Viet.  And  we  shall  sit  together  unmolested, 
And   words   of    true   love   pass    from   tongue   to 

tongue, 
As  singing  birds  from  one  bough  to  another. 

Prec.  That  were  a  life  to  make  time  envious ! 
I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  come  to  me  to-night. 
I  saw  thee  at  the  play. 

Viet.  Sweet  child  of  air ! 

Never  did  I  behold  thee  so  attired 
And  garmented  in  beauty  as  to-night ! 
What  hast  thou  done  to  make  thee  look  so  fair  ? 

Prec.  Am  I  not  always  fair  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  and  so  fair 

That  I  am  jealous  of  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 
And  wish  that  they  were  blind. 

Prec.  I  heed  them  not ; 

When  thou  art  present,  I  see  none  but  thee  ! 

Viet.  There  's   nothing  fair  nor  beautiful,  but 

takes 
Something  from  thee,  that  makes  it  beautiful. 

Line  14.     That  were  a  life  indeed  to  make  time  envious  I 
Line  15.     I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  vUit  me  to-night. 


112  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Prec.  And  yet  thou  leavest  me  for  those  dusty 
books. 

Viet.  Thou  comest  between  me  and  those  books 

too  often ! 

I  see  thy  face  in  everything  I  see ! 
The  paintings  in  the  chapel  wear  thy  looks. 
The  canticles  are  changed  to  sarabands, 
And  with  the  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
I  see  thee  dance  cachuchas. 

Prec.  In  good  sooth, 

I  dance  with  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
To-morrow  morning. 

Viet.  And  with  whom,  I  pray  ? 

Prec.  A  grave  and  reverend  Cardinal,  and  his 

Grace 
The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

Viet.  What  mad  jest 

Is  this? 

Prec.       It  is  no  jest ;  indeed  it  is  not. 

Viet.  Prithee,  explain  thyself. 

Prec.  Why,  simply  thus. 

Thou  knowest  the  Pope  has  sent  here  into  Spain 
To  put  a  stop  to  dances  on  the  stage. 

Viet.  I  have  heard  it  whispered. 

Prec.  Now  the  Cardinal, 

Who  for  this  purpose  comes,  would  fain  behold 
With  his  own  eyes  these  dances ;  and  the  Arch* 

bishop 
Has  sent  for  me  — 

Viet.          That  thou  mayest  dance  before  them 
Now  viva  la  cachucha !     It  will  breathe 
The  fire  of  youth  into  these  gray  old  men ! 
T  will  be  thy  proudest  conquest ! 

Prec.  Saving  one. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  113 

And  yet  I  fear  these  dances  will  be  stopped, 
And  Preciosa  be  once  more  a  beggar. 

Viet.  The  sweetest  beggar  that  e'er  asked  for 

alms; 

With  such  beseeching  eyes,  that  when  I  saw  thee 
I  gave  my  heart  away  ! 

free.  Dost  thou  remember 

When  first  we  met? 

Viet.  It  was  at  Cordova, 

In  the  cathedral  garden.     Thou  wast  sitting 
Under  the  orange  trees,  beside  a  fountain. 

Prec.    'T  was  Easter  Sunday.      The   full-blos- 
somed trees 

Filled  all  the  air  with  fragrance  and  with  joy. 
The  priests  were  singing,  and  the  organ  sounded, 
And  then  anon  the  great  cathedral  bell. 
It  was  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 
We  both  of  us  fell  down  upon  our  knees, 
Under  the  orange  boughs,  and  prayed  together. 
I  never  had  been  happy  till  that  moment. 

Viet.  Thou  blessed  angel ! 

free.  And  when  thou  wast  gone 

I  felt  an  aching  here.     I  did  not  speak 
To  any  one  that  day.     But  from  that  day 
Bartolome"  grew  hateful  unto  me. 

Viet.  Remember  him  no  more.     Let   not   his 

shadow 

Come  between  thee  and  me.     Sweet  Preciosa ! 
I  loved  thee  even  then,  though  I  was  silent ! 

Prec.  I   thought   I  ne'er  should  see   thy  face 

again. 
Thy  farewell  had  a  sound  of  sorrow  in  it. 

Viet.  That  was  the  first  sound  in  the  song  of 
love ! 


114  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Scarce  more  than  silence  is,  and  yet  a  sound. 

Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  the  strings 

Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  the  soul, 

And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate.     We  hear 

The  voice  prophetic,  and  are  not  alone. 

Prec.  That  is  my  faith.    Dost  thou  believe  these 

warnings  ? 

Viet.  So  far   as   this.     Our   feelings    and    our 
thoughts 

Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present. 

As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  well, 

And  from  below  comes  a  scarce  audible  sound, 

So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Hereafter, 

And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us. 

Prec.  I  have  felt  it  so,  but  found  no  words  to 
say  it ! 

I  cannot  reason  ;  I  can  only  feel ! 

But  thou  hast  language  for  all  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. 

Thou  art  a  scholar ;  and  sometimes  I  think 

We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ! 

The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 

Henceforth  thy  pathway  lies  among  the  stars ; 

I  must  not  hold  thee  back. 

Viet.  Thou  little  sceptic  ! 

Dost  thou  still  doubt  ?     What  I  most  prize   in 
woman 

Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect ! 

The  intellect  is  finite  ;  but  the  affections 

Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 

Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the  earth ; 

What  am  I  ?     Why,  a  pygmy  among  giants  ! 

But  if  thou  lovest,  —  mark  me  !  I  say  lovest, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  115 

The  greatest  of  thy  sex  excels  thee  not ! 
The  world  of  the  affections  is  thy  world, 
Not  that  of  man's  ambition.     In  that  stillness 
Which  most  becomes  a  woman,  calm  and  holy, 
Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 
Feeding  its  flame.     The  element  of  fire 
Is  pure.     It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its  nature, 
But  burns  as  brightly  in  a  Gypsy  camp 
As  in  a  palace  hall.     Art  thou  convinced  ? 

free.  Yes,  that  I  love  thee,  as  the  good  love 

heaven ; 

But  not  that  I  am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 
How  shall  I  more  deserve  it  ? 

Viet.  Loving  more. 

free.  I  cannot  love  thee  more ;  my  heart  is  full. 

Viet.  Then  let  it  overflow,  and  I  will  drink  it, 
As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 
Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manzanares, 
And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 

A  Watchman  (in  the  streef).     Ave  Maria 
Purissima !     'T  is  midnight  and  serene  ! 

Viet.  Hear'st  thou  that  cry  ? 

Prec.  It  is  a  hateful  sound, 

To  scare  thee  from  me  ! 

Viet.  As  the  hunter's  horn 

Doth  scare  the  timid  stag,  or  bark  of  hounds 
The  moor-fowl  from  his  mate. 

Pree.  Pray,  do  not  go  ! 

Viet.  I  must  away  to  Alcala  to-night. 
Think  of  me  when  I  am  away. 

Prec.  Fear  not ! 

I  have  no  thoughts  that  do  not  think  of  thee. 

Line  1C.    Drink  the  swift  waters  of  a  mountain  torrent, 


116  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Viet,  (giving  Tier  a  ring").    And  to  remind  thee 

of  my  love,  take  this  ; 
A  serpent,  emblem  of  Eternity ; 
A  ruby,  —  say,  a  drop  of  my  heart's  blood. 

free.  It  is  an  ancient  saying,  that  the  ruby 
Brings  gladness  to  the  wearer,  and  preserves 
The  heart  pure,  and,  if  laid  beneath  the  pillow, 
Drives  away  evil  dreams.     But  then,  alas  ! 
It  was  a  serpent  tempted  Eve  to  sin. 

Viet.  What  convent  of  barefooted  Carmelites 
Taught  thee  so  much  theology  ? 

free,  (laying    her    hand    upon    his    mouth*). 

Hush !  hush ! 
Good   night  !    and    may   all    holy   angels    guard 

thee ! 
Viet.  Good  night !  good  night !     Thou  art  my 

guardian  angel ! 
I  have  no  other  saint  than  thou  to  pray  to  ! 

(He  descends  by  the  balcony.) 

Prec.  Take  care,  and  do  not  hurt  thee.     Art 

thou  safe  ? 
Viet,  (from  the  garden).     Safe  as  my  love  for 

thee  !     But  art  thou  safe  ? 
Others  can  climb  a  balcony  by  moonlight 
As  well  as  I.     Pray  shut  thy  window  close  ; 
I  am  jealous  of  the  perfumed  air  of  night 
That  from  this  garden  climbs  to  kiss  thy  lips. 
Prec.  (throwing  down  her  handkerchief^).  Thou 

silly  child  !    Take  this  to  blind  thine  eyes. 
It  is  my  benison  ! 

Viet.  And  brings  to  me 

Sweet  fragrance  from  thy  lips,  as  the  soft  wind 
Wafts  to  the  out-bound  mariner  the  breath 
Of  the  beloved  land  he  leaves  behind. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  117 

Prec.  Make  not  thy  voyage  long. 

Viet.  To-morrow  night 

Shall  see  me  safe  returned.     Thou  art  the  star 
To  guide  me  to  an  anchorage.     Good  night ! 
My  beauteous  star  !    My  star  of  love,  good  night ! 

Prec.  Good  night ! 

Watchman  (at  a  distance).     Ave  Maria  Puris- 
sima! 

SCENE  IV.  —  An  inn  on  the  road  to  Alcald.     BALTASAR  asleep  on 
a  bench.     Enter  CHISPA. 

Chispa.  And  here  we  are,  half-way  to  Alcala, 
between  cocks  and  midnight.  Body  o'  me  !  what 
an  inn  this  is !  The  lights  out,  and  the  landlord 
asleep.  Hold !  ancient  Baltasar  ! 

Bal.  (waking^).     Here  I  am. 

Chispa.  Yes,  there  you  are,  like  a  one-eyed  Al- 
calde in  a  town  without  inhabitants.  Bring  a  light, 
and  let  me  have  supper. 

Bal.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Chispa.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  him.  We 
have  stopped  a  moment  to  breathe  our  horses  ;  and, 
if  he  chooses  to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  open  air, 
looking  into  the  sky  as  one  who  hears  it  rain,  that 
does  not  satisfy  my  hunger,  you  know.  But  be 
quick,  for  I  am  in  a  hurry,  and  every  man  stretches 
his  legs  according  to  the  length  of  his  coverlet. 
What  have  we  here  ? 

Bal.  (setting  a  light  on  the  table).  Stewed 
rabbit. 

Chispa  (eating").  Conscience  of  Portalegre ! 
Stewed  kitten,  you  mean  ! 

Bal.  And  a  pitcher  of  Pedro  Ximenes,  with  a 
roasted  pear  in  it. 


118  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

CJiispa  (drinking).  Ancient  Baltasar,  amigo ! 
You  know  how  to  cry  wine  and  sell  vinegar.  I 
tell  you  this  is  nothing  but  Vinto  Tinto  of  La 
Mancha,  with  a  tang  of  the  swine-skin. 

Bed.  I  swear  to  you  by  Saint  Simon  and  Judas, 
it  is  all  as  I  say. 

Chispa.  And  I  swear  to  you  by  Saint  Peter  and 
Saint  Paul,  that  it  is  no  such  thing.  Moreover, 
your  supper  is  like  the  hidalgo's  dinner,  very  little 
meat  and  a  great  deal  of  tablecloth. 

Bal.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Chispa.  And  more  noise  than  nuts. 

Bal.  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  You  must  have  your  joke, 
Master  Chispa.  But  shall  I  not  ask  Don  Victo- 
rian in,  to  take  a  draught  of  the  Pedro  Ximenes  ? 

Chispa.  No ;  you  might  as  well  say,  "  Don't- 
you-want-some  ?  "  to  a  dead  man. 

Bal.  Why  does  he  go  so  often  to  Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  For  the  same  reason  that  he  eats  no 
supper.  He  is  in  love.  Were  you  ever  in  love, 
Baltasar  ? 

Bal.  I  was  never  out  of  it,  good  Chispa.  It 
has  been  the  torment  of  my  life. 

Chispa.  What!  are  you  on  fire,  too,  old  hay- 
stack ?  Why,  we  shall  never  be  able  to  put  you 
out. 

Viet,  (without).     Chispa! 

Chispa.  Go  to  bed,  Pero  Grullo,  for  the  cocks 
are  crowing. 

Viet.  Ea!    Chispa!    Chispa! 

Chispa.  Ea !  Senor.  Come  with  me,  ancient 
Baltasar,  and  bring  water  for  the  horses.  I  will 
pay  for  the  supper  to-morrow.  [Exeunt. 


THE  SPANISH   STUDENT  119 

SCENE  V. — VICTORIAN'S  chambers  at  Alcald.     HYPOIJTO  asleep 
in  an  arm-chair.     Me  awakes  slowly. 

Hyp.  I  must  have  been  asleep  !  ay,  sound  asleep ! 
And  it  was  all  a  dream.     O  sleep,  sweet  sleep ! 
Whatever  form  thou  takest,  thou  art  fair, 
Holding  unto  our  lips  thy  goblet  filled 
Out  of  Oblivion's  well,  a  healing  draught ! 
The  candles  have  burned  low ;  it  must  be  late. 
Where  can  Victorian  be  ?     Like  Fray  Carrillo, 
The  only  place  in  which  one  cannot  find  him 
Is  his  own  cell.     Here  's  his  guitar,  that  seldom- 
Feels  the  caresses  of  its  master's  hand. 
Open  thy  silent  lips,  sweet  instrument ! 
And  make  dull  midnight  merry  with  a  song. 

(He plays  and  sings.) 

Padre  Francisco  ! 
Padre  Francisco ! 

What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Francisco  ? 
Here  is  a  pretty  young  maiden 
Who  wants  to  confess  her  sins  ! 
Open  the  door  and  let  her  come  in, 
I  will  shrive  her  of  every  sin. 

(Enter  VICTORIAN.) 

Viet.  Padre  Hypolito !     Padre  Hypolito ! 

Hyp.  What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Hypolito  ? 

Viet.  Come,  shrive  me  straight ;  for,  if  love  be 

a  sin, 

I  am  the  greatest  sinner  that  doth  live. 
I  will  confess  the  sweetest  of  all  crimes, 
A  maiden  wooed  and  won. 

Hyp.  The  same  old  tale 

Of  the  old  woman  in  the  chimney-corner, 


120  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Who,  while  the  pot  boils,  says,  "  Come  here,  my 

child ; 
I  '11  tell  thee  a  story  of  my  wedding-day." 

Viet.  Nay,  listen,  for  my  heart  is  full ;  so  full 
That  I  must  speak. 

Hyp.  Alas !  that  heart  of  thine 

Is  like  a  scene  in  the  old  play ;  the  curtain 
Rises  to  solemn  music,  and  lo  !  enter 
The  eleven  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne ! 

Viet.  Nay,  like  the  Sibyl's  volumes,  thou  shouldst 

say; 

Those  that  remained,  after  the  six  were  burned, 
Being  held  more  precious  than  the  nine  together. 
But  listen  to  my  tale.     Dost  thou  remember 
The  Gypsy  girl  we  saw  at  Cordova 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  market-place  ? 

Hyp.  Thou  meanest  Preciosa. 

Viet.  Ay,  the  same. 

Thou  knowest  how  her  image  haunted  me 
Long  after  we  returned  to  Alcala. 
She  's  in  Madrid. 

Hyp.  I  know  it. 

Viet.  And  I  'm  in  love. 

Hyp.    And    therefore   in   Madrid   when    thou 

shouldst  be 
In  Alcala. 

Viet.          Oh  pardon  me,  my  friend, 
If  I  so  long  have  kept  this  secret  from  thee  ; 
But  silence  is  the  charm  that  guards  such  treas. 

ures, 

And,  if  a  word  be  spoken  ere  the  time, 
They  sink  again,  they  were  not  meant  for  us. 

Hyp.  Alas  !  alas !  I  see  thou  art  in  love. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  121 

Love  keeps  the  cold  out  better  than  a  cloak. 

It  serves  for  food  and  raiment.     Give  a  Spaniard 

His  mass,  his  olla,  and  his  Dona  Luisa  — 

Thou  knowest  the  proverb.     But   pray  tell   me, 

lover, 

How  speeds  thy  wooing  ?     Is  the  maiden  coy  ? 
Write  her  a  song,  beginning  with  an  Ave  ; 
Sing  as  the  monk  sang  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 

A  ve  !  cujus  calcem  dare 
Nee  centenni  commendare 
Sciret  Seraph  studio  ! 

Viet.  Pray,  do  not  jest!    This  is  no  time  for  it! 
I  am  in  earnest ! 

Hyp.  Seriously  enamored  ? 

What,  ho  !     The  Primus  of  great  Alcala 
Enamored  of  a  Gypsy  ?     Tell  me  frankly, 
How  meanest  thou  ? 

Viet.  I  mean  it  honestly. 

Hyp.  Surely  thou  wilt  not  marry  her ! 

Viet.  Why  not? 

Hyp.  She  was  betrothed  to  one  Bartolome, 
If  I  remember  rightly,  a  young  Gypsy 
Who  danced  with  her  at  C6rdova. 

Viet.  They  quarrelled, 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

Hyp.  But  in  truth 

T hou  wilt  not  marry  her. 

Viet.  In  truth  I  will. 

The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was  born ! 
She  is  a  precious  jewel  I  have  found 
Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 
I  '11  stoop  for  it ;  but  when  I  wear  it  here, 
Set  on  my  forehead  like  the  morning  star, 
The  world  may  wonder,  but  it  will  not  laugh. 


122  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Hyp.  If  thou  wear'st  nothing  else  upon  thy  fore- 

head, 
?T  will  be  indeed  a  wonder. 

Viet.  Out  upon  thee 

With  thy  unseasonable  jests  !     Pray  tell  me, 
Is  there  no  virtue  in  the  world  ? 

Hyp.  Not  much. 

What,  think' st  thou,  is  she  doing  at  this  moment ; 
Now,  while  we  speak  of  her  ? 

Viet.  She  lies  asleep, 

And  from  her  parted  lips  her  gentle  breath 
Comes  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of  flowers. 
Her  tender  limbs  are  still,  and  on  her  breast 
The  cross  she  prayed  to,  ere  she  fell  asleep, 
Rises  and  falls  with  the  soft  tide  of  dreams, 
Like  a  light  barge  safe  moored. 

Hyp.  Which  means,  in  prose, 

She  's  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a  little  open ! 

Viet.  Oh,  would  I  had  the  old  magician's  glass 
To  see  her  as  she  lies  in  child-like  sleep  ! 

Hyp.  And  wouldst  thou  venture  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  indeed  I  would ! 

Hyp.  Thou   art   courageous.      Hast    thou   e'er 

reflected 
How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word,  now  ? 

Viet.  Yes ;  all  the  awful  mystery  of  Life  J 
I  oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 
That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic,  change 
The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 
In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 
What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  cast 
Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life ! 
What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the  death, 
bed, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  123 

Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe  ! 
What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  farewells ! 
What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes ! 
What  visible  joy  or  anguish  in  those  cheeks ! 
What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funereal  shows  ! 
What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  struggling ! 
What  lovers  with  their  marble  lips  together ! 

Hyp*  Ay,  there  it  is !  and,  if  I  were  in  love, 
That  is  the  very  point  I  most  should  dread. 
This  magic  glass,  these  magic  spells  of  thine, 
Might  tell  a  tale  were  better  left  untold. 
For  instance,  they  might  show  us  thy  fair  cousin, 
The  Lady  Violante,  bathed  in  tears 
Of  love  and  anger,  like  the  maid  of  Colchis, 
Whom  thou,  another  faithless  Argonaut, 
Having  won  that  golden  fleece,  a  woman's  love, 
Desertest  for  this  Glance". 

Viet.  Hold  thy  peace  ! 

She  cares  not  for  me.     She  may  wed  another, 
Or  go  into  a  convent,  and,  thus  dying, 
Marry  Achilles  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 

Hyp.    (rising').     And  so,  good   night!     Good 
morning,  I  should  say. 

(Clock  strikes  three.) 

Hark !  how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace  of  Time 

Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day ! 

And  so,  once  more,  good   night !     We  '11   speak 

more  largely 

Of  Preciosa  when  we  meet  again. 
Get  thee  to  bed,  and  the  magician,  Sleep, 
Shall  show  her  to  thee,  in  his  magic  glass, 
In  all  her  loveliness.     Good  night  J  [Exit 

Viet.  Good  night .' 


124  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

But  not  to  bed ;  for  I  must  read  awhile. 

(Throws  himself  into  the  arm-chair  ivhich  HYPOLITO  has  left,  and 
lays  a  large  book  open  upon  his  knees. ) 

Must  read,  or  sit  in  revery  and  watch 

The  changing  color  of  the  waves  that  break 

Upon  the  idle  sea-shore  of  the  mind  ! 

Visions  of  Fame  !  that  once  did  visit  me, 

Making  night  glorious  with  your  smile,  where  are 

ye? 

Oh,  who  shall  give  me,  now  that  ye  are  gone, 
Juices  of  those  immortal  plants  that  bloom 
Upon  Olympus,  making  us  immortal  ? 
Or  teach  me  where  that  wondrous  mandrake  grows 
Whose   magic    root,   torn    from    the   earth   with 

groans, 

At  midnight  hour,  can  scare  the  fiends  away, 
And  make  the  rnind  prolific  in  its  fancies  ? 
I  have  the  wish,  but  want  the  will,  to  act ! 
Souls  of  great  men  departed  !     Ye  whose  words 
Have  come  to  light  from  the  swift  river  of  Time, 
Like  Roman  swords  found  in  the  Tagus'  bed, 
Where  is  the  strength  to  wield  the  arms  ye  bore  ? 
From  the  barred  visor  of  Antiquity 
Reflected  shines  the  eternal  light  of  Truth, 
As  from  a  mirror  !     All  the  means  of  action  — 
The  shapeless  masses,  the  materials  — 
Lie  everywhere  about  us.     What  we  need 
Is  the  celestial  fire  to  change  the  flint 
Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  and  clear. 
That  fire  is  genius  !     The  rude  peasant  sits 
At  evening  in  his  smoky  cot,  and  draws 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the  wall. 
The  son  of  genius  comes,  foot-sore  with  travel, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  125 

And  begs  a  shelter  from  the  inclement  night. 

He  takes  the  charcoal  from  the  peasant's  hand, 

And,  by  the  magic  of  his  touch  at  once 

Transfigured,  all  its  hidden  virtues  shine, 

And,  in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  clown, 

It  gleams  a  diamond !     Even  thus  transformed, 

Rude  popular  traditions  and  old  tales 

Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 

Of  some  poor,  houseless,  homeless,  wandering  bard, 

Who  had  but  a  night's  lodging  for  his  pains. 

But  there  are  brighter  dreams  than  those  of  Fame, 

Which  are  the  dreams  of  Love  !    Out  of  the  heart 

Rises  the  bright  ideal  of  these  dreams, 

As  from  some  woodland  fount  a  spirit  rises 

And  sinks  again  into  its  silent  deeps, 

Ere  the  enamored  knight  can  touch  her  robe ! 

'T  is  this  ideal  that  the  soul  of  man, 

Like  the  enamored  knight  beside  the  fountain, 

Waits  for  upon  the  margin  of  Life's  stream  ; 

Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from  the  dark  waters, 

Clad  in  a  mortal  shape  !     Alas  !  how  many 

Must  wait  in  vain  !     The  stream  flows  evermore, 

But  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit  rises ! 

Yet  I,  born  under  a  propitious  star^ 

Have  found  the  bright  ideal  of  my  dreams. 

Yes  !  she  is  ever  with  me.     I  can  feel, 

Here,  as  I  sit  at  midnight  and  alone, 

Her  gentle  breathing  !  on  my  breast  can  feel 

The  pressure  of  her  head  !     God's  benison 

Rest  ever  on  it !     Close  those  beauteous  eyes, 

Sweet  Sleep !    and  all  the  flowers  that  bloom  at 

night 

With  balmy  lips  breathe  in  her  ears  my  name ! 
(.Gradually  sinks  asleep.) 


126  THE  SPANISH   STUDENT 


ACT  H. 

SCENE   I.  —  PKECIOSA'S   chamber.       Morning.       PRECIOSA  and 
ANGELICA. 

Prec.  Why  will   you   go   so   soon  ?     Stay  yet 

awhile. 

The  poor  too  often  turn  away  unheard 
From  hearts  that  shut  against  them  with  a  sound 
That  will  be  heard  in  heaven.     Pray,  tell  me  more 
Of  your  adversities.     Keep  nothing  from  me. 
What  is  your  landlord's  name  ? 

Ang.  The  Count  of  Lara. 

Prec.  The  Count  of  Lara?     Oh,  beware  that 

man! 

Mistrust  his  pity,  —  hold  no  parley  with  him ! 
And  rather  die  an  outcast  in  the  streets 
Than  touch  his  gold. 

Ang.  You  know  him,  then  ! 

Prec.  As  much 

As  any  woman  may,  and  yet  be  pure. 
As  you  woidd  keep  your  name  without  a  blemish, 
Beware  of  him ! 

Ang.  Alas  !  what  can  I  do  ? 

I  cannot  choose  my  friends.     Each  word  of  kind- 
ness, 
Come  whence  it  may,  is  welcome  to  the  poor. 

Prec.  Make  me  your  friend.     A  girl  so  young 

and  fair 

Should  have  no  friends  but  those  of  her  own  sex. 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Ang.  Angelica. 

Prec.  That  name 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  127 

Was  given  you,  that  you  might  be  an  angel 
To  her  who  bore  you !     When  your  infant  smile 
Made  her  home  Paradise,  you  were  her  angel. 
Oh,  be  an  angel  still !     She  needs  that  smile. 
So  long  as  you  are  innocent,  fear  nothing. 
No  one  can  harm  you !     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Whom  chance  has  taken  from  the  public  streets. 
I  have  no  other  shield  than  mine  own  virtue. 
That  is  the  charm  which  has  protected  me  ! 
Amid  a  thousand  perils,  I  have  worn  it 
Here  on  my  heart !     It  is  my  guardian  angel. 

Ang.  (rising).     I  thank  you  for  this  counsel, 
dearest  lady. 

free.  Thank  me  by  following  it. 

Ang.  Indeed  I  will. 

free.  Pray,  do  not  go.     I  have  much  more  to 
say. 

Ang.  My  mother  is  alone.     I  dare  not  leave 
her. 

Prec.  Some   other   time,  then,  when  we   meet 

again. 
You  must  not  go  away  with  words  alone. 

(Gives  her  a  purse.) 

Take  this.     Would  it  were  more. 
*     Ang.  I  thank  you,  ladyc 

Prec.  No  thanks.    To-morrow  come  to  me  again. 
I  dance  to-night,  —  perhaps  for  the  last  time. 
But  what  I  gain,  I  promise  shall  be  yours, 
If  that  can  save  you  from  the  Count  of  Lara. 

Ang.  Oh,  my  dear  lady !  how  shall  I  be  grateful 
For  so  much  kindness  ? 

Prec.  I  deserve  no  thanks. 

Thank  Heaven,  not  me. 


128  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Ang.  Both  Heaven  and  you. 

Prec.  Farewell. 

Remember  that  you  come  again  to-morrow. 

Ang.  I   will.     And   may    the    Blessed    Virgin 

guard  you, 
And  all  good  angels.  [Exit. 

Prec.  May  they  guard  thee  too, 

And  all  the  poor ;  for  they  have  need  of  angels. 
Now  bring  me,  dear  Dolores,  my  basquina, 
My  richest  maja  dress,  —  my  dancing  dress, 
And  my  most  precious  jewels !     Make  me  look 
Fairer  than  night  e'er  saw  me !     I  've  a  prize 
To  win  this  day,  worthy  of  Preciosa ! 
(Enter  BELTKAN  CKUZADO.) 

Cruz.  Ave  Maria ! 

Prec.  O  God !  my  evil  genius ! 

What  seekest  thou  here  to-day  ? 

Cruz.  Thyself,  —  my  child. 

Prec.  What  is  thy  will  with  me  ? 

Cruz.  Gold !  gold ! 

Prec.  I  gave  thee  yesterday ;  I  have  no  more. 

Cruz.  The   gold  of  the  Busne*,  —  give  me  his 
gold! 

Prec.  I  gave  the  last  in  charity  to-day. 

Cruz.  That  is  a  foolish  lie. 

Prec.  It  is  the  truth. 

Cruz.  Curses  upon   thee !     Thou   art   not   my 

child! 

Hast  thou  given  gold  away,  and  not  to  me  ? 
Not  to  thy  father  ?     To  whom,  then  ? 

Prec.  To  one 

WTio  needs  it  more. 

Cruz.  No  one  can  need  it  more. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  129 

Prec.  Thou  art  not  poor. 

Cruz.  What,  I,  who  lurk  about 

In  dismal  suburbs  and  unwholesome  lanes ; 
I,  who  am  housed  worse  than  the  galley  slave ; 
I,  who  am  fed  worse  than  the  kennelled  hound ; 
I,  who  am  clothed  in  rags,  —  Beltran  Cruzado,  — 
Not  poor ! 

free.  Thou  hast  a  stout  heart  and  strong  hands. 
Thou  canst  supply  thy  wants  ;  what  wouldst  thou 
more? 

Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busn^  !  give  me  his  gold ! 

Prec.  Beltran  Cruzado !  hear  me  once  for  all. 
I  speak  the  truth.     So  long  as  I  had  gold, 
I  gave  it  to  thee  freely,  at  all  times, 
Never  denied  thee  ;  never  had  a  wish 
But  to  fulfil  thine  own.     Now  go  in  peace  I 
Be  merciful,  be  patient,  and  erelong 
Thou  shalt  have  more. 

Cruz.  And  if  I  have  it  not, 

Thou  shalt  no  longer  dwell  here  in  rich  chambers, 
Wear  silken  dresses,  feed  on  dainty  food, 
And  live  in  idleness ;  but  go  with  me, 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  public  streets, 
And  wander  wild  again  o'er  field  and  fell ; 
For  here  we  stay  not  long. 

Prec.  What !  march  again  ? 

Cruz.  Ay,  with  all  speed.     I  hate  the  crowded 

town ! 

I  cannot  breathe  shut  up  within  its  gates ! 
Air,  —  I  want  air,  and  sunshine,  and  blue  sky, 
The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  my  face, 
The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet, 
And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain-tops. 


130  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Then  I  am  free  and  strong,  —  once  more  myself, 
Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Gales ! 

free.  God  speed  thee  on  thy  march !  —  I  can- 
not go. 

Cruz.  Remember  who  I  am,  and  who  thou  art  \ 
Be  silent  and  obey  !  Yet  one  thing  more. 
Bartolome  Roman  — 

Prec.  (with  emotion).     Oh,  I  beseech  thee ! 
If  my  obedience  and  blameless  life, 
If  my  humility  and  meek  submission 
In  all  things  hitherto,  can  move  in  thee 
One  feeling  of  compassion  ;  if  thou  art 
Indeed  my  father,  and  canst  trace  in  me 
One  look  of  her  who  bore  me,  or  one  tone 
That  doth  remind  thee  of  her,  let  it  plead 
In  my  behalf,  who  am  a  feeble  girl, 
Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  do  not  force  me 
To  wed  that  man  !     I  am  afraid  of  him  ! 
I  do  not  love  him  !     On  my  knees  I  beg  thee 
To  use  no  violence,  nor  do  in  haste 
What  cannot  be  undone  ! 

Cruz.  O  child,  child,  child  ! 

Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  secret,  as  a  bird 
Betrays  her  nest,  by  striving  to  conceal  it. 
I  will  not  leave  thee  here  in  the  great  city 
To  be  a  grandee's  mistress.     Make  thee  ready 
To  go  with  us  ;  and  until  then  remember 
A  watchful  eye  is  on  thee.  [Exit. 

free.  Woe  is  me  ! 

I  have  a  strange  misgiving  in  my  heart  I 
But  that  one  deed  of  charity  I  '11  do, 
Befall  what  may ;  they  cannot  take  that  from  me. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  131 

SCENE  II.  — A  room  in  the  ARCHBISHOP'S  Palace.     The  ARCH- 
BISHOP and  a  CARDINAL  seated. 

Arch.  Knowing  how  near  it  touched  the  public 

morals, 

And  that  our  age  is  grown  corrupt  and  rotten 
By  such  excesses,  we  have  sent  to  Koine, 
Beseeching  that  his  Holiness  would  aid 
In  curing  the  gross  surfeit  of  the  time, 
By  seasonable  stop  put  here  in  Spain 
To  bull-fights  and  lewd  dances  on  the  stage. 
All  this  you  know. 

Card.  Know  and  approve. 

Arch.  And  further, 

That,  by  a  mandate  from  his  Holiness, 
The  first  have  been  suppressed. 

Card.  I  trust  forever. 

It  was  a  cruel  sport. 

Arch.  A  barbarous  pastime, 

Disgraceful  to  the  land  that  calls  itself 
Most  Catholic  and  Christian. 

Card.  Yet  the  people 

Murmur  at  this  ;  and,  if  the  public  dances 
Should  be  condemned  upon  too  slight  occasion, 
Worse  ills  might  follow  than  the  ills  we  cure. 
As  Panem  et  Circenses  was  the  cry 
Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old, 
So  fan  y  Toros  is  the  cry  in  Spain. 
Hence  I  would  act  advisedly  herein  ; 
And  therefore  have  induced  your  Grace  to  see 
These  national  dances,  ere  we  interdict  them. 


132  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

(Enter  a  Servant.) 

Serv.  The  dancing-girl,  and  with  her  the  musi* 

cians 

Your  Grace  was  pleased  to  order,  wait  without. 
Arch.  Bid  them  conie  in.     Now  shall  your  eyes 

behold 

In  what  angelic,  yet  voluptuous  shape 
The  Devil  came  to  tempt  Saint  Anthony. 

(Enter  PBECIOSA,  with  a  mantle  thrown  over  her  head.     She  ad- 
vances slowly,  in  modest,  half-timid  attitude.) 

Card,  (aside).     Oh,  what  a  fair  and  minister- 
ing angel 
Was  lost  to  heaven  when  this  sweet  woman  fell ! 

Prec.  (kneeling   before   the,   ARCHBISHOP).     I 

have  obeyed  the  order  of  your  Grace. 
If  I  intrude  upon  your  better  hours, 
I  proffer  this  excuse,  and  here  beseech 
Your  holy  benediction. 

Arch.  May  God  bless  thee, 

And  lead  thee  to  a  better  life.     Arise. 

Card,  (aside).     Her  acts  are  modest,  and  her 

words  discreet ! 

I  did  not  look  for  this !     Come  hither,  child. 
£s  thy  name  Preciosa  ? 

Prec.  Thus  I  am  called. 

Card.  That  is   a   Gypsy  name.     Who   is   thy 
father  ? 

Prec.  Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Gales. 

Arch.  I  have  a  dim  remembrance  of  that  man  ; 
He  was  a  bold  and  reckless  character, 
A  sun-burnt  Ishmael ! 

Card.  Dost  thou  remember 

Thy  earlier  days  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  133 

Prec.  Yes  ;  by  the  Darro's  side 

My  childhood  passed.     I  can  remember  still 
The  river,  and  the  mountains  capped  with  snow ; 
The  villages,  where,  yet  a  little  child, 
I  told  the  traveller's  fortune  in  the  street ; 
The  smuggler's  horse,  the  brigand  and  the  shep- 
herd ; 

The  march  across  the  moor ;  the  halt  at  noon  ; 
The  red  fire  of  the  evening  camp,  that  lighted 
The  forest  where  we  slept ;  and,  further  back, 
As  in  a  dream  or  in  some  former  life, 
Gardens  and  palace  walls. 

Arch.  'T  is  the  Alhambra, 

Under  whose  towers  the  Gypsy  camp  was  pitched. 
But  the  time  wears  ;  and  we  would  see  thee  dance. 

Prec.  Your  Grace  shall  be  obeyed. 

(She  lays  aside  her  mantilla.  The  music  of  the  cachucha  is  played, 
and  the  dance  begins.  The  ARCHBISHOP  and  the  CARDINAL 
look  on  with  gravity  and  an  occasional  frown ;  then  make  signs  to 
each  other ;  and,  as  the  dance  continues,  become  more  and  more 
pleased  and  excited ;  and  at  length  rise  from  their  seats,  throw 
their  caps  in  the  air,  and  applaud  vehemently  as  the  scene  closes. ) 

SCENE  III.  —  The  Prado.  A  long  avenue  of  trees  leading  to  the 
gate  of  Atocha.  On  the  right  the  dome  and  spires  of  a  convent. 
A  fountain.  Evening.  DON  CARLOS  and  HYPOLITO  meeting. 

Don  C.  Hola !  good  evening,  Don  Hypolito. 

Hyp.  And  a  good  evening  to  my  friend,  Don 

Carlos. 

Some  lucky  star  has  led  my  steps  this  way. 
I  was  in  search  of  you. 

Don  C.  Command  me  always. 

Hyp.  Do  you  remember,  in  Quevedo's  Dreams, 
The  miser,  who,  upon  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise  ? 


134  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Don  C.  I  do  ; 

But  what  of  that  ? 

Hyp.  I  arn  that  wretched  man. 

Don  C.  You  mean  to  tell  me  yours  have  risen 
empty  ? 

Hyp.  And  amen  !  said  my  Cid  Campeador. 

Don  C.  Pray,  how  much  need  you  ? 

Hyp.  Some  half-dozen  ounces, 

Which,  with  due  interest  — 

Don   C.    (giving  his  purse).     What,  am  I  a 

Jew 

To  put  my  moneys  out  at  usury  ? 
Here  is  my  purse. 

Hyp.  Thank  you.     A  pretty  purse. 

Made  by  the  hand  of  some  fair  Madrileiia ; 
Perhaps  a  keepsake. 

Don  C.  No,  't  is  at  your  service. 

Hyp.  Thank  you  again.     Lie  there,  good  Chry- 

sostom, 

And  with  thy  golden  mouth  remind  me  often, 
I  am  the  debtor  of  my  friend. 

Don  C.  But  tell  me, 

Come  you  to-day  from  Alcala  ? 

Hyp.  This  moment. 

Don  C.  And  pray,  how  fares  the  brave  Victo- 
rian ? 

Hyp.  Indifferent  well ;  that  is  to  say,  not  well. 
A  damsel  has  ensnared  him  with  the  glances 
Of  her  dark,  roving  eyes,  as  herdsmen  catch 
A  steer  of  Andalusia  with  a  lazo. 
He  is  in  love. 

Don  C.         And  is  it  faring  ill 
To  be  in  love  ? 

Line  4.     And  amen !  said  the  Cid  Campeador. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  135 

Hyp.  In  his  case  very  ill. 

Don  C.  Why  so? 

Hyp.  For  many  reasons.     First  and  foremost, 
Because  he  is  in  love  with  an  ideal ; 
A  creature  of  his  own  imagination  ; 
A  child  of  air ;  an  echo  of  his  heart ; 
And,  like  a  lily  on  a  river  floating, 
She  floats  upon  the  river  of  his  thoughts ! 

Don  C.  A  common  thing  with  poets.     But  who 

is 

This  floating  lily  ?     For,  in  fine,  some  woman, 
Some  living  woman,  —  not  a  mere  ideal,  — 
Must  wear  the  outward  semblance  of  his  thought. 
Who  is  it  ?     Tell  me. 

Hyp.  Well,  it  is  a  woman! 

But,  look  you,  from  the  coffer  of  his  heart 
He  brings  forth  precious  jewels  to  adorn  her, 
As  pious  priests  adorn  some  favorite  saint 
With  gems  and  gold,  until  at  length  she  gleams 
One  blaze  of  glory.     Without  these,  you  know, 
And  the  priest's  benediction,  't  is  a  doll. 

Don  C.  Well,  well !  who  is  this  doll  ? 

Hyp.  Why,  who  do  you  think  ? 

Don  C.  His  cousin  Violante. 

Hyp.  Guess  again. 

To  ease  his  laboring  heart,  in  the  last  storm 
He  threw  her  overboard,  with  all  her  ingots. 

Don  G.  I  cannot  guess ;  so  tell  me  who  it  is. 

Hyp.  Not  I. 

Don  C.  Why  not? 

Hyp.    (mysteriously}.    Why?     Because    Mari 

Franca 
Was  married  four  leagues  out  of  Salamanca  I 

Don  C.  Jesting  aside,  who  is  it  ? 


136  THE   SPANISH  STUDENT 

Hyp-  Preciosa. 

Don  C.  Impossible  !     The  Count  of  Lara  tells 

me 
She  is  not  virtuous. 

Hyp.  Did  I  say  she  was  ? 

The  Roman  Emperor  Claudius  had  a  wife 
Whose  name  was  Messalina,  as  I  think; 
Valeria  Messalina  was  her  name. 
But  hist !  I  see  him  yonder  through  the  trees, 
Walking  as  in  a  dream. 

Don  C.  He  comes  this  way. 

Hyp.  It  has  been  truly  said  by  some  wise  man, 
That  money,  grief,  and  love  cannot  be  hidden. 
(Enter  VICTORIAN  in  front.) 

Viet.   Where'er   thy   step   has   passed   is   holy 

ground ! 

These  groves  are  sacred  !     I  behold  thee  walking 
Under  these  shadowy  trees,  where  we  have  walked 
At  evening,  and  I  feel  thy  presence  now ; 
Feel  that  the  place  has  taken  a  charm  from  thee, 
And  is  forever  hallowed. 

Hyp.  Mark  him  well ! 

See  how  he  strides  away  with  lordly  air, 
Like  that   odd  guest  of   stone,  that  grim  Com- 
mander 
Who  comes  to  sup  with  Juan  in  the  play. 

Don  C.  What  ho !  Victorian  ! 

Hyp.  Wilt  thou  sup  with  us  ? 

Viet.  Hola  !  amigos  !    Faith,  I  did  not  see  you. 
How  fares  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.  At  your  service  ever. 

Viet.  How  is  that  young  and  green-eyed  Gadi« 

tana 
That  you  both  wot  of  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  137 

Don  C.  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes! 

She  has  gone  back  to  Cadiz. 

Hyp.  Ay  de  mi ! 

Viet.  You  are  much  to  blame  for  letting  her  go 

back. 

A  pretty  girl ;  and  in  her  tender  eyes 
Just  that  soft  shade  of  green  we  sometimes  see 
In  evening  skies. 

Hyp.  But,  speaking  of  green  eyes, 

Are  thine  green  ? 

Viet.  Not  a  whit.     Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  I  think 

The  slightest  shade  of  green  would  be  becoming, 
For  thou  art  jealous. 

Viet.  No,  I  am  not  jealous. 

Hyp.  Thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Why? 

Hyp.  Because  thou  art  in  love. 

And  they  who  are  in  love  are  always  jealous. 
Therefore  thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Marry,  is  that  all  ? 

Farewell ;  I  am  in  haste.     Farewell,  Don  Carlos. 
Thou  sayest  I  should  be  jealous  ? 

Hyp.  Ay,  in  truth 

I  fear  there  is  reason.  Be  upon  thy  guard. 
I  hear  it  whispered  that  the  Count  of  Lara 
Lays  siege  to  the  same  citadel. 

Viet.  Indeed ! 

Then  he  will  have  his  labor  for  his  pains. 

Hyp.  He  does  not  think  so,  and  Don  Carlos 

tells  me 
He  boasts  of  his  success. 

Viet.  How  's  this,  Don  Carlos  ? 


138  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Don  C.  Some  hints  of  it  I  heard  from  his  own 

lips. 

He  spoke  but  lightly  of  the  lady's  virtue, 
As  a  gay  man  might  speak. 

Viet.  Death  and  damnation ! 

I  '11  cut  his  lying  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
And  throw  it  to  my  dog  !     But,  no,  no,  no  ! 
This  cannot  be.     You  jest,  indeed  you  jest. 
Trifle  with  me  no  more.     For  otherwise 
We  are  no  longer  friends.     And  so,  farewell ! 

[Exit. 

Hyp.  Now  what  a  coil  is  here  !     The  Avenging 

Child 

Hunting  the  traitor  Quadros  to  his  death, 
And  the  great  Moor  Calaynos,  when  he  rode 
To  Paris  for  the  ears  of  Oliver, 
Were  nothing  to  him  !     O  hot-headed  youth ! 
But  come  ;  we  will  not  follow.     Let  us  join 
The  crowd  that  pours  into  the  Prado.     There 
We  shall  find  merrier  company ;  I  see 
The  Marialonzos  and  the  Almavivas, 
And  fifty  fans,  that  beckon  me  already.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  PRECIOSA'S  chamber.  She  is  sitting,  with  a  book  in 
her  hand,  near  a  table,  on  which  are  flowers.  A  bird  singing  in 
its  cage.  The  COUNT  OF  LARA  enters  behind  unperceived. 

Prec.  (reads). 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art  ! 

Heigho  !  I  wish  Victorian  were  here. 

I  know  not  what  it  is  makes  me  so  restless ! 

( The  bird  sings. ) 

Thou  little  prisoner  with  thy  motley  coat, 


THE   SPANISH  STUDENT  139 

That  from  thy  vaulted,  wiry  dungeon  singest, 
Like  thee  I  am  a  captive,  and,  like  thee, 
I  have  a  gentle  jailer.     Lack-a-day ! 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart  ! 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 
All  this  throbbing,  all  this  aching, 
Evermore  shall  keep  thee  waking, 
For  a  heart  in  sorrow  breaking 
Thinketh  ever  of  its  smart ! 

Thou  speakest  truly,  poet !  and  methinks 
More  hearts  are  breaking  in  this  world  of  ours 
Than  one  would  say.     In  distant  villages 
And  solitudes  remote,  where  winds  have  wafted 
The  barbed  seeds  of  love,  or  birds  of  passage 
Scattered  them  in  their  flight,  do  they  take  root, 
And  grow  in  silence,  and  in  silence  perish. 
Who  hears  the  falling  of  the  forest  leaf  ? 
Or  who  takes  note  of  every  flower  that  dies  ? 
Heigho !  I  wish  Victorian  would  come. 
Dolores ! 

( Turns  to  lay  down  her  book,  and  perceives  the  COUNT.  ) 

Ha! 

Lara.  Sefiora,  pardon  me  ! 

free.  How 's  this  ?     Dolores ! 

Lara.  Pardon  me  — 

free.  Dolores ! 

Lara.  Be  not  alarmed ;  I  found  no  one  in  wait- 
ing. 
If  I  have  been  too  bold  — 

Prec.  (turning  her  back  upon  him).     You  are 

too  bold ! 
Retire !  retire,  and  leave  me  ! 

Lara.  My  dear  lady, 


140  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

First  hear  me  !    I  beseech  you,  let  me  speak ! 
'T  is  for  your  good  I  come. 

Prec.  (turning  toward  him  with  indignation). 

Begone !  begone ! 

You  are  the  Count  of  Lara,  but  your  deeds 
Would  make  the  statues  of  your  ancestors 
Blush  on  their  tombs  !     Is  it  Castilian  honor, 
Is  it  Castilian  pride,  to  steal  in  here 
Upon  a  friendless  girl,  to  do  her  wrong  ? 
Oh  shame  !  shame  !  shame !  that  you,  a  nobleman, 
Should  be  so  little  noble  in  your  thoughts 
As  to  send  jewels  here  to  win  my  love, 
And  think  to  buy  my  honor  with  your  gold ! 
I  have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I  scorn  you  ! 
Begone  !     The  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me  ! 
Begone,  I  say ! 

Lara.  Be  calm ;  I  will  not  harm  you. 

free.  Because  you  dare  not. 

Lara.  I  dare  anything  ! 

Therefore  beware  !     You  are  deceived  in  me. 
In  this  false  world,  we  do  not  always  know 
Who  are  our  friends  and  who  our  enemies. 
We  all  have  enemies,  and  all  need  friends. 
Even  you,  fair  Preciosa,  here  at  court 
Have  foes,  who  seek  to  wrong  you. 

Prec.  If  to  this 

I  owe  the  honor  of  the  present  visit, 
You  might    have   spared    the   coming.      Having 

spoken, 
Once  more  I  beg  you,  leave  me  to  myself. 

Lara.  I  thought  it  but  a  friendly  part  to  tell  you 
What  strange  reports  are  current  here  in  town. 
For  my  own  self,  I  do  not  credit  them  ; 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  141 

But  there  are  many  who,  not  knowing  you, 
Will  lend  a  readier  ear. 

Prec.  There  was  no  need 

That  you  should  take  upon  yourself  the  duty 
Of  telling  me  these  tales. 

Lara.  Malicious  tongues 

Are  ever  busy  with  your  name. 

Prec.  Alas ! 

I  've  no  protectors.     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Exposed  to  insults  and  unfeeling  jest. 
They  wound  me,  yet  I  cannot  shield  myself. 
I  give  no  cause  for  these  reports.     I  live 
Retired  ;  am  visited  by  none. 

Lara.  By  none  ? 

Oh,  then,  indeed,  you  are  much  wronged ! 

Prec.  How  mean  you  ? 

Lara.  Nay,  nay ;  I  will  not  wound  your  gentle 

soul 
By  the  report  of  idle  tales. 

Prec.  Speak  out ! 

What  are  these  idle  tales  ?     You  need  not  spare 
me. 

Lara.  I  will  deal  frankly  with  you.     Pardon 

me; 

This  window,  as  I  think,  looks  toward  the  street, 
And  this  into  the  Prado,  does  it  not  ? 
In  yon  high  house,  beyond  the  garden  wall,  — 
You  see  the  roof  there  just  above  the  trees,  — 
There  lives  a  friend,  who  told  me  yesterday, 
That  on  a  certain  night,  —  be  not  offended 
If  I  too  plainly  speak,  —  he  saw  a  man 
Climb  to  your  chamber  window.     You  are  silent ! 
I  would  not  blame  you,  being  young  and  fair  — 


142  THE   SPANISH  STUDENT 

(He  tries  to  embrace  her.     She  starts  back,  and  draws  a  dagger 
from  her  bosom. ) 

Prec.  Beware !  beware  !  I  am  a  Gypsy  girl ! 
Lay  not  your  hand  upon  me.     One  step  nearer 
And  I  will  strike  ! 

Lara.  Pray  you,  put  up  that  dagger. 

Fear  not. 

Prec.  I  do  not  fear.     I  have  a  heart 
In  whose  strength  I  can  trust. 

Lara.  Listen  to  me. 

I  come  here  as  your  friend,  —  I  am  your  friend,  — 
And  by  a  single  word  can  put  a  stop 
To  all  those  idle  tales,  and  make  your  name 
Spotless  as  lilies  are.     Here  on  my  knees, 
Fair  Preciosa  !  on  my  knees  I  swear, 
I  love  you  even  to  madness,  and  that  love 
Has  driven  me  to  break  the  rules  of  custom, 
And  force  myself  unasked  into  your  presence. 

(VICTORIAN  enters  behind. ) 

Prec.  Rise,  Count  of  Lara !     That  is  not  the 

place 

For  such  as  you  are.     It  becomes  you  not 
To  kneel  before  me.     I  am  strangely  moved 
To  see  one  of  your  rank  thus  low  and  humbled ; 
For  your  sake  I  will  put  aside  all  anger, 
All  unkind  feeling,  all  dislike,  and  speak 
In  gentleness,  as  most  becomes  a  woman, 
And  as  my  heart  now  prompts  me.     I  no  more 
Will  hate  you,  for  all  hate  is  painful  to  me. 
But  if,  without  offending  modesty 
And  that  reserve  which  is  a  woman's  glory, 
I  may  speak  freely,  I  will  teach  my  heart 
To  love  you. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  143 

Lara.           O  sweet  angel ! 

Prec.  Ay,  in  truth, 

Far  better  than  you  love  yourself  or  me. 

Lara.  Give  me  some  sign  of  this,  —  the  slight- 
est token. 
Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand ! 

Prec.  Nay,  come  no  nearer. 

The  words  I  utter  are  its  sign  and  token. 
Misunderstand  me  not !     Be  not  deceived  ! 
The  love  wherewith  I  love  you  is  not  such 
As  you  would  offer  me.     For  you  come  here 
To  take  from  me  the  only  thing  I  have, 
My  honor.     You  are  wealthy,  you  have  friends 
And  kindred,  and  a  thousand  pleasant  hopes 
That  fill  your  heart  with  happiness  ;  but  I 
Am  poor,  and  friendless,  having  but  one  treasure, 
And  you  would  take  that  from  me,  and  for  what  ? 
To  flatter  your  own  vanity,  and  make  me 
What  you  would  most  despise.     Oh,  sir,  such  love, 
That  seeks  to  harm  me,  cannot  be  true  love. 
Indeed  it  cannot.     But  my  love  for  you 
Is  of  a  different  kind.     It  seeks  your  good. 
It  is  a  holier  feeling.     It  rebukes 
Your  earthly  passion,  your  unchaste  desires, 
And  bids  you  look  into  your  heart,  and  see 
How  you  do  wrong  that  better  nature  in  you, 
And  grieve  your  soid  with  sin. 

Lara.  I  swear  to  you, 

I  would  not  harm  you  ;  I  would  only  love  you. 
I  would  not  take  your  honor,  but  restore  it, 
And  in  return  I  ask  but  some  slight  mark 
Of  your  affection.     If  indeed  you  love  me, 
As  you  confess  you  do,  oh,  let  me  thus 
With  this  embrace  — 


144  THE   SPANISH  STUDENT 

Viet,  (rushing  forward).     Hold!  hold!     This 

is  too  much. 
What  means  this  outrage  ? 

Lara.  First,  what  right  have  you 

To  question  thus  a  nobleman  of  Spain  ? 

Viet.  I  too  am  noble,  and  you  are  no  more  ! 
Out  of  my  sight ! 

Lara.  Are  you  the  master  here  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  here  and  elsewhere,  when  the  wrong 

of  others 
Gives  me  the  right ! 

free,  (to  LARA).  Go  !  I  beseech  you,  go  ! 

Viet.  I  shall  have  business  with  you,  Count, 
anon! 

Lara.  You  cannot  come  too  soon  !  [Exit. 

Prec.  Victorian ! 

Oh,  we  have  been  betrayed ! 

Viet.  Ha !  ha !  betrayed  ! 

'T  is  I  have  been  betrayed,  not  we  !  —  not  we  ! 

Prec.  Dost  thou  imagine  — 

Viet.  I  imagine  nothing  ; 

I  see  how  't  is  thou  whilest  the  time  away 
When  I  am  gone  ! 

Prec.  Oh,  speak  not  in  that  tone ! 

It  wounds  me  deeply. 

Viet.  'T  was  not  meant  to  flatter. 

Prec.    Too  well  thou  knowest  the  presence  of 

that  man 
Is  hateful  to  me  ! 

Viet.  Yet  I  saw  thee  stand 

And  listen  to  him,  when  he  told  his  love. 

Prec.  I  did  not  heed  his  words. 

Viet.  Indeed  thou  didst, 

And  answeredst  them  with  love. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  145 

Prec.  Hadst  thou  heard  all  — 

Viet.  I  heard  enough. 

Prec.  Be  not  so  angry  with  me. 

Viet.  I  am  not  angry ;  I  am  very  calm. 

Prec.  If  thou  wilt  let  me  speak  — 

Viet.  Nay,  say  no  more. 

I  know  too  much  already.     Thou  art  false  ! 
I  do  not  like  these  Gypsy  marriages  ! 
Where  is  the  ring  I  gave  thee  ? 

Prec.  In  my  casket. 

Viet.  There  let  it  rest  !     I  would  not  have  thee 

wear  it  : 
I  thought  thee  spotless,  and  thou  art  polluted  ! 

Prec.  I  call  the  Heavens  to  witness  — 

Viet.  Nay,  nay,  nay  ! 

Take  not  the  name  of  Heaven  upon  thy  lips  ! 
They  are  forsworn  ! 

Prec.  Victorian  !  dear  Victorian  ! 

Viet.  I  gave  up  all  for  thee  ;  myself,  my  fame, 
My  hopes  of  fortune,  ay,  my  very  soul  ! 
And  thou  hast  been  my  ruin  !     Now,  go  on  ! 
Laugh  at  my  folly  with  thy  paramour, 
And,  sitting  on  the  Count  of  Lara's  knee, 
Say  what  a  poor,  fond  fool  Victorian  was  ! 

(He  casts  her  from  him  and  rushes  out.) 

Prec.  And  this  from  thee  ! 

(Scene  closes.) 

SCENE  V.  —  The  COUNT  OF  LARA'S  rooms.     Enter  the  COUNT. 

Lara.  There  's  nothing  in  this  world  so  sweet 

as  love, 

And  next  to  love  the  sweetest  thing  is  hate  ! 
I  've  learned  to  hate,  and  therefore  am  revenged. 


146  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

A  silly  girl  to  play  the  prude  with  me  ! 
The  fire  that  I  have  kindled  — 
(Enter  FRANCISCO.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  tidings  from  Don  Juan  ? 

Fran.  Good,  my  lord  •, 

He  will  be  present. 

Lara.  And  the  Duke  of  Lernios  ? 

Fran.  Was  not  at  home. 

Lara.  How  with  the  rest  ? 

Fran.  I  've  found 

The   men   you  wanted.     They  will   all   be  there, 
And  at  the  given  signal  raise  a  whirlwind 
Of  such  discordant  noises,  that  the  dance 
Must  cease  for  lack  of  music. 

Lara.  Bravely  done. 

Ah  !  little  dost  thou  dream,  sweet  Preciosa, 
What  lies   in   wait   for    thee.       Sleep   shall   not 

close 
Thine  eyes  this  night  !     Give  me  my  cloak  and 

SWOrd.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  — A  retired  spot  beyond  the  city  gates.     Enter  VICTO- 
RIAN and  HYPOLITO. 

Viet.  Oh  shame  !    Oh  shame  !    Why  do  I  walk 

abroad 

By  daylight,  when  the  very  sunshine  mocks  me, 
And  voices,  and  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
Cry,  "  Hide  thyself  !  "     Oh  what  a  thin  partition 
Doth  shut  out  from  the  curious  world  the  knowl- 
edge 

Of  evil  deeds  that  have  been  done  in  darkness  ! 
Disgrace  has  many  tongues.     My  fears  are  win- 
dows, 


THE   SPANISH  STUDENT  147 

Through  which  all  eyes  seem  gazing.     Every  face 
Expresses  some  suspicion  of  my  shame, 
And  in  derision  seems  to  smile  at  me  ! 

Hyp.  Did  I  not  caution  thee  ?     Did  I  not  tell 

thee 
I  was  but  half  persuaded  of  her  virtue  ? 

Viet.    And  yet,  Hypolito,  we   may  be  wrong, 
We  may  be  over-hasty  in  condemning  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  cursed  villain. 

Hyp.  And  therefore  is  she  cursed,  loving  him. 

Viet.  She  does  not  love  him  !     'T  is  for  gold  ! 
for  gold  ! 

Hyp.  Ay,  but  remember,  in  the  public  streets 
He  shows  a  golden  ring  the  Gypsy  gave  him, 
A  serpent  with  a  ruby  in  its  mouth. 

Viet.  She  had  that  ring  from  me  !     God  !  she 

is  false  ! 

But  I  will  be  revenged  !     The  hour  is  passed. 
Where  stays  the  coward  ? 

Hyp.  Nay,  he  is  no  coward  ; 

A  villain,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  a  coward. 
I  've  seen  him  play  with  swords  ;  it  is  his  pastime. 
And  therefore  be  not  over-confident, 
He  '11  task  thy  skill  anon.     Look,  here  he  comes. 
(Enter  LARA  folloived  by  FRANCISCO.  ) 

Lara.  Good  evening,  gentlemen. 

Hyp.  Good  evening,  Count. 

Lara.  I  trust  I  have  not  kept  you  long  in  wait- 
ing. 

Viet.  Not  long,  and  yet  too  long.     Are  you  pre- 
pared ? 

Lara.  I  am, 

Hyp.         It  grieves  me  much  to  see  this  quarrel 


148  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Between  you,  gentlemen.     Is  there  no  way 

Left  open  to  accord  this  difference, 

But  you  must  make  one  with  your  swords  ? 

Viet.  No  !  none  ! 

I  do  entreat  thee,  dear  Hypolito, 
Stand  not   between   me   and   my  foe.     Too   long 
Our  tongues  have  spoken.     Let  these  tongues  of 

steel 

End  our  debate.     Upon  your  guard,  Sir  Count. 
(They  fight.     VICTOKIAN  disarms  the  COUNT.) 

Your  life  is  mine ;  and  what  shall  now  withhold 

me 
From  sending  your  vile  soul  to  its  account  ? 

Lara.  Strike  !  strike  ! 

Viet.    You  are  disarmed.      I  will  not  kill  you. 
I  will  not  murder  you.     Take  up  your  sword. 

(FRANCISCO  hands  the  COUNT  his  sword,   and  HYPOLITO  inter- 
poses. ) 

Hyp.  Enough !  Let  it  end  here !  The  Count  of 

Lara 

Has  shown  himself  a  brave  man,  and  Victorian 
A  generous  one,  as  ever.     Now  be  friends. 
Put    up  your   swords ;   for,   to  speak  frankly  to 

you, 

Your  cause  of  quarrel  is  too  slight  a  thing 
To  move  you  to  extremes. 

Lara.  I  am  content. 

T  sought  no  quarrel.     A  few  hasty  words, 
Spoken  in  the  heat  of  blood,  have  led  to  this. 

Viet.  Nay,  something  more  than  that. 

Lara.  I  understand  you. 

Therein  I  did  not  mean  to  cross  your  path. 
To  me  the  door  stood  open,  as  to  others. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  149 

But,  had  I  known  the  girl  belonged  to  you, 
Never  would  I  have  sought  to  win  her  from  you. 
The  truth  stands  now  revealed  ;  she  has  been  false 
To  both  of  us. 

Viet.  Ay,  false  as  hell  itself  ! 

Lara.  In  truth,  I  did  not  seek  her  ;  she  sought 

me; 

And  told  me  how  to  win  her,  telling  me 
The  hours  when  she  was  oftenest  left  alone. 

Viet.  Say,  can  you  prove  this  to  me  ?  Oh,  pluck 

out 

These  awful  doubts,  that  goad  me  into  madness  ! 
Let  me  know  a]l !  all !  all ! 

Lara.  You  shall  know  all. 

Here  is  my  page,  who  was  the  messenger 
Between  us.     Question  him.     Was  it  not  so, 
Francisco  ? 

Fran.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Lara.  If  further  proof 

Is  needful,  I  have  here  a  ring  she  gave  me. 

Viet.  Pray  let  me   see  that   ring !     It   is   the 
same! 

( Throws  it  upon  the  ground,  and  tramples  upon  it. ) 
Thus  may  she  perish  who  once  wore  that  ring ! 
Thus  do  1  spurn  her  from  me ;  do  thus  trample 
Her  memory  in  the  dust !  O  Count  of  Lara, 
We  both  have  been  abused,  been  much  abused  ! 
I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy  and  frankness. 
Though,  like  the  surgeon's  hand,  yours  gave  me 

pain, 

Yet  it  has  cured  my  blindness,  and  I  thank  you. 
I  now  can  see  the  folly  I  have  done, 
Though  't  is,  alas !  too  late.     So  fare  you  well  I 


150  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

To-night  I  leave  this  hateful  town  forever. 
Regard  me  as  your  friend.     Once  more  farewell ! 
Hyp.  Farewell,  Sir  Count. 

[Exeunt  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO, 
Lara.  Farewell !  farewell !  farewell ! 
Thus  have  I  cleared  the  field  of  my  worst  foe ! 
I  have  none  else  to  fear  ;  the  fight  is  done, 
The  citadel  is  stormed,  the  victory  won  ! 

[Exit  with  FRANCISCO. 

SCENE  VII.  —  A   lane  in  the  suburbs.     Night.     Enter  CKUZADO 
and  BARTOLOME. 

Cruz.  And  so,  Bartolome',  the  expedition  failed. 
But  where  wast  thou  for  the  most  part  ? 

Bart.  In  the  Guadarrama  mountains,  near  San 
Ildefonso. 

Cruz.  And  thou  bringest  nothing  back  with 
thee  ?  Didst  thou  rob  no  one  ? 

Bart.  There  was  no  one  to  rob,  save  a  party  of 
students  from  Segovia,  who  looked  as  if  they  would 
rob  us  ;  and  a  jolly  little  friar,  who  had  nothing  in 
his  pockets  but  a  missal  and  a  loaf  of  bread. 

Cruz.  Pray,  then,  what  brings  thee  back  to  Ma- 
drid ? 

Bart.  First  tell  me  what  keeps  thee  here  ? 

Cruz.  Preciosa. 

Bart.  And  she  brings  me  back.  Hast  thou  for. 
gotten  thy  promise  ? 

Cruz.  The  two  years  are  not  passed  yet.  Wait 
patiently.  The  girl  shall  be  thine. 

Bart.  I  hear  she  has  a  Busnd  lover. 

Cruz.  That  is  nothing. 

Line  4.    Farewell !    farewell  1 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  151 

Bart.  I  do  not  like  it.  I  hate  him,  —  the  son 
of  a  Busn6  harlot.  He  goes  in  and  out,  and  speaks 
with  her  alone,  and  I  must  stand  aside,  and  wait 
his  pleasure. 

Cruz.  Be  patient,  I  say.  Thou  shalt  have  thy 
revenge.  When  the  time  comes,  thou  shalt  way- 
lay him. 

Bart.  Meanwhile,  show  me  her  house. 

Cruz.  Come  this  way.  But  thou  wilt  not  find 
her.  She  dances  at  the  play  to-night. 

Bart.  No  matter.     Show  me  the  house.     [.Exeunt. 


SCENE  VIII.  —  The  Theatre.  The  orchestra  plays  the  cachucha. 
Sound  of  castanets  behind  the  scenes.  The  curtain  rises,  and  dis- 
covers PRECIOSA  in  the  attitude  of  commencing  the  dance.  The 
cachucha.  Tumult ;  hisses  ;  cries  of  "  Brava  ! "  and  "Afuera  !  " 
She  falters  and  pauses.  The  music  stops.  General  confusion. 
PRECIOSA  faints. 


SCENE  IX.  —  The  COUNT  of  LARA'S  chambers.     LARA  and  his 
friends  at  supper. 

Lara.  So,  Caballeros,  once  more  many  thanks ! 
You  have  stood  by  me  bravely  in  this  matter. 
Pray  fill  your  glasses. 

Don  J.  Did  you  mark,  Don  Luis, 

How  pale  she  looked,  when  first  the  noise  began, 
And  then  stood  still,  with  her  large  eyes  dilated ! 
Her  nostrils  spread  !  her  lips  apart !  her  bosom 
Tumultuous  as  the  sea ! 

Don  L.  I  pitied  her. 

Lara.  Her    pride    is  humbled ;  and   this  very 

night 
I  mean  to  visit  her. 

Don  J.  Will  you  serenade  her  ? 


152  THE   SPANISH  STUDENT 

Lara.  No  music  !  no  more  music  ! 

Don  L.  Why  not  music  ? 

It  softens  many  hearts. 

Lara.  Not  in  the  humor 

She  now  is  in.     Music  would  madden  her. 

Don  J.  Try  golden  cymbals. 

Don  L.  Yes,  try  Don  Dinero  ; 

A  mighty  wooer  is  your  Don  Dinero. 

Lara.  To  tell  the  truth,  then,  I  have  bribed  her 

maid. 

But,  Caballeros,  you  dislike  this  wine. 
A  bumper  and  away  ;  for  the  night  wears. 
A  health  to  Preciosa. 

( They  rise  and  drink. ) 

All.  Preciosa. 

Lara  (holding  up  his  glass).     Thou  bright  and 

flaming  minister  of  Love  ! 
Thou  wonderful  magician  !  who  hast  stolen 
My  secret  from  me,  and  'mid  sighs  of  passion 
Caught  from  my  lips,  with  red  and  fiery  tongue, 
Her  precious  name !  Oh  nevermore  henceforth 
Shall  mortal  lips  press  thine  ;  and  nevermore 
A  mortal  name  be  whispered  in  thine  ear. 
Go  !  keep  my  secret ! 

(Drinks  and  dashes  the  goblet  down.) 

Don  J.  Ite !  missa  est ! 

( Scene  closes. ) 

SCENE  X.  —  Street  and  garden  wall.     Night.     Enter    CRCZADO 
and  BARTOLOME. 

Cruz.  This  is  the  garden  wall,  and  above  it, 
yonder,  is  her  house.  The  window  in  which  thou 
seest  the  light  is  her  window.  But  we  will  not  go 
in  now. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  153 

Bart.  Why  not  ? 

Cruz.  Because  she  is  not  at  home. 

Bart.  No  matter;  we  can  wait.  But  how  is 
this  ?  The  gate  is  bolted.  (Sound  of  guitars  and 
voices  in  a  neighboring  street.)  Hark !  There 
comes  her  lover  with  his  infernal  serenade ! 
Hark! 

SONG. 

Good  night  !     Good  night,  beloved  ! 

I  come  to  watch  o'er  thee  ! 
To  be  near  thee,  —  to  be  near  thee, 

Alone  is  peace  for  me. 

Thine  eyes  are  stars  of  morning, 

Thy  lips  are  crimson  flowers  ! 
Good  night !     Good  night,  beloved, 

While  I  count  the  weary  hours. 

Cruz.  They  are  not  coming  this  way. 
Bart.  Wait,  they  begin  again. 

SONG  (coming  nearer). 
Ah  !  thou  moon  that  shiuest 

Argent-clear  above  ! 
All  night  long  enlighten 

My  sweet  lady-love ; 

Moon  that  shinest, 
All  night  long  enlighten  ! 

Bart.  Woe  be  to  him,  if  he  comes  this  way  I 
Cruz.   Be   quiet,   they   are   passing   down   the 
street. 

SONG  (dying  away). 
The  nuns  in  the  cloister 

Sang  to  each  other  ; 
For  so  many  sisters 

Is  there  not  one  brother  i 


154  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Ay,  for  the  partridge,  mother  ! 

The  cat  has  run  away  with  the  partridge  ! 
Puss  !  puss  !  puss  ! 

Bart,  Follow  that !  follow  that !  Come  with 
me.  Puss  !  puss ! 

(Exeunt.     On  the  opposite  side  enter   the   COUNT   OF   LARA  and 
gentlemen  with  FRANCISCO.  ) 

Lara.  The  gate  is  fast.     Over  the  wall,  Fran- 
cisco, 

And  draw  the  bolt.     There,  so,  and  so,  and  over. 
Now,  gentlemen,  come  in,  and  help  me  scale 
Yon  balcony.     How  now  ?     Her  light  still  burns. 
Move  warily.     Make  fast  the  gate,  Francisco. 
(Exeunt.     Reenter  CRUZADO  and  BARTOLOME.) 

Bart.  They  went  in  at  the  gate.  Hark !  I  hear 
them  in  the  garden.  (Tries  the  gate.")  Bolted 
again !  Vive  Cristo  !  Follow  me  over  the  wall. 

(  They  climb  the  wall. ) 

SCENE  XI.  —  PRECIOSA'S  bedchamber.    Midnight.    She  is  sleeping 
in  an  arm-chair,  in  an  undress.     DOLORES  watching  her. 

Dol.  She  sleeps  at  last ! 

( Opens  the  window,  and  listens. ) 

All  silent  in  the  street, 
And  in  the  garden.     Hark  ! 

free,  (in  her  sleep").  I  must  go  hence ! 

Give  me  my  cloak ! 

DoL  He  comes  !     I  hear  his  footsteps. 

Prec.  Go  tell  them  that  I  cannot  dance  to-night ; 
I  am  too  ill !     Look  at  me !     See  the  fever 
That  burns  upon  my  cheek  !     I  must  go  hence. 
I  am  too  weak  to  dance. 

(Signal  from  the  garden.) 

Dol.  (from  the  window).     Who's  there? 


THE   SPANISH  STUDENT  155 

Voice  (from  belovf).  A  friend. 

Dol.  I  will  undo  the  door.     Wait  till  I  come. 

Free.  I  must   go   hence.     I   pray  you  do  not 

harm  me  ! 

Shame  !  shame  !  to  treat  a  feeble  woman  thus ! 
Be  you  but  kind,  I  will  do  all  things  for  you. 
I  'm  ready  now,  —  give  me  my  castanets. 
Where  is  Victorian  ?     Oh,  those  hateful  lamps  ! 
They  glare  upon  me  like  an  evil  eye. 
I  cannot  stay.     Hark !  how  they  mock  at  me  ! 
They  hiss  at  me  like  serpents !     Save  me !  save 
me ! 

(She  wakes.) 

How  late  is  it,  Dolores  ? 

Dol.  It  is  midnight. 

Prec.  We  must  be  patient.     Smooth  this  pillow 
for  me. 

(She  sleeps  again.     Noise  from  the  garden,  and  voices.) 

Voice.    Muera ! 

Another  voice.     O  villains  !  villains  ! 

Lara.  So !  have  at  you  ! 

Voice.  Take  that ! 

Lara.  Oh,  I  am  wounded  ! 

Dol.  (shutting  the  window}.  Jesu  Maria ! 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  cross-road  through  a  wood.  In  the  background  a 
distant  village  spire.  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO,  as  travelling 
students,  with  guitars,  sitting  under  the  trees.  HYPOUTO  plays 
and  sings. 

SONG. 

Ah,  Love  ! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 
Enemy 


156  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue  ! 

Most  uutrue 
To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee. 

Woe  is  me  1 
The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove. 

Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Viet.  Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his  shuttle, 
Is  ever  weaving  into  life's  dull  warp 
Bright,  gorgeous  flowers  and  scenes  Arcadian ; 
Hanging  our  gloomy  prison-house  about 
With  tapestries,  that  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never-ending  vistas  of  delight. 

Hyp.  Thinking  to  walk  in  those  Arcadian  pas- 

tures, 
Thou  hast  run  thy  noble  head  against  the  wall. 

SONG  (continued). 

Thy  deceits 
Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 

Whither  tend 
All  thy  pleasures,  all  thy  sweets  ! 

They  are  cheats, 
Thorns  below  and  flowers  above. 

Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Viet.  A  very  pretty  song.     I  thank  thee  for  it. 

Hyp.     It  suits  thy  case. 

Viet.  Indeed,  I  think  it  does. 

What  wise  man  wrote  it  ? 

Hyp.  Lopez  Maldonado. 

Viet.  In  truth,  a  pretty  song. 

Hyp.  With  much  truth  in  it 

I  hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it ;  and  in  earnest 
Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  157 

Viet.  I  will  forget  her  !     All  dear  recollections 
Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within  a  book, 
Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the  winds ! 
I  will  forget  her !     But  perhaps  hereafter, 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the  world, 
A  voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name, 
And  she  will  say,  "  He  was  indeed  my  friend !  " 
Oh,  would  I  were  a  soldier,  not  a  scholar, 
That  the  loud  march,  the  deafening  beat  of  drums, 
The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated  trumpet, 
The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the  storm, 
And  a  swift  death,  might  make  me  deaf  forever 
To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foolish  heart ! 

Hyp.  Then  let  that  foolish  heart   upbraid  no 

more ! 
To  conquer  love,  one  need  but  will  to  conquer. 

Viet.  Yet,  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in  vain 
I  throw  into  Oblivion's  sea  the  sword 
That  pierces  me ;  for,  like  Excalibar, 
With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  will  not  sink. 
There  rises  from  below  a  hand  that  grasps  it, 
And  waves  it  in  the  air ;  and  wailing  voices 
Are  heard  along  the  shore. 

Hyp.  And  yet  at  last 

Down  sank  Excalibar  to  rise  no  more. 
This  is  not  well.     In  truth,  it  vexes  me. 
Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 
To  make  them  jog  on  merrily  with  life's  burden, 
Like  a  dead  weight  thou  hangest  on  the  wheels. 
Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health 
To  talk  of  dying. 

Viet.  Yet  I  fain  would  die ! 

To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved ; 


158  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still ;  that  longing,  that  wild  impulse,, 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not 
And  cannot  have  ;  the  effort  to  be  strong  ; 
And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  smile, 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our  cloaks ; 
All  this  the  dead  feel  not,  —  the  dead  alone  ! 
Would  I  were  with  them  ! 

Hyp.  We  shall  all  be  soon. 

Viet.  It  cannot  be  too  soon  ;  for  I  am  weary 
Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 
Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends  as 

strangers  ; 

Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false  hearts ; 
And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we  chase 
Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles,  and  beckons, 
And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave  us 
A  mockery  and  a  jest ;  maddened,  —  confused,  — 
Not  knowing  friend  from  foe. 

Hyp.  Why  seek  to  know  ? 

Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy  youth  ! 
Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  itself, 
Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 

Viet.  I  confess, 

That  were  the  wiser  part.     But  Hope  no  longer 
Comforts  my  soul.     I  am  a  wretched  man, 
Much  like  a  poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the  boat, 
Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  cut  off, 
And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 
Helpless  and  hopeless  I 

Hyp.  Yet  thou  shalt  not  perish. 

The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salvation. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  159 

Above    thy   head,   through    rifted    clouds,   there 

shines 
A  glorious  star.     Be  patient.     Trust  thy  star  ! 

(Sound  of  a  village  bell  in  ike  distance. ) 

Viet.  Ave  Maria !     I  hear  the  sacristan 
Ringing  the  chimes  from  yonder  village  belfry ! 
A  solemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  and  wide 
Over  the  red  roofs  of  the  cottages, 
And  bids  the  laboring  hind  afield,  the  shepherd, 
Guarding  his  flock,  the  lonely  muleteer, 
And  all  the  crowd  in  village  streets,  stand  still, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  unto  the  blessed  Virgin ! 

Hyp.  Amen !   amen !     Not  half  a  league  from 

hence 
The  village  lies. 

Viet.  This  path  will  lead  us  to  it, 

Over  the  wheat-fields,  where  the  shadows  sail 
Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now  blue, 
And,  like  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main, 
Whistles  the  quail.     Come,  let  us  hasten  on. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  Public  square  in  the  village  of  Guadarrama.  The 
Ave  Maria  still  tolling.  A  crowd  of  villagers,  with  their  hats  in 
their  hands,  as  if  in  prayer.  In  front,  a  group  of  Gypsies.  The 
bell  rings  a  merrier  peal.  A  Gypsy  dance.  Enter  PANCHO,  fol- 
lowed by  PEDKO  CBESPO. 

Pancho.  Make  room,  ye  vagabonds  and  Gypsy 

thieves ! 
Make  room  for  the  Alcalde  and  for  me ! 

Pedro  C.  Keep  silence  all !     I  have  an   edict 

here 

From  our  most  gracious  lord,  the  King  of  Spain, 
Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary  Islands, 


160  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Which  I  shall  publish  in  the  market-place. 
Open  your  ears  and  listen  ! 

(Enter  the  PADRE  CUHA  at  the  door  of  his  cottage.) 

Padre  Cura, 
Good  day !  and,  pray  you,  hear  this  edict  read. 

Padre  C.     Good  day,  and  God  be  with  you ! 
Pray,  what  is  it  ? 

Pedro  C.  An   act  of   banishment   against  the 
Gypsies ! 

(Agitation  and  murmurs  in  the  crowd. ) 

Pancho.  Silence ! 

Pedro  C.  (reads).     "  I  hereby  order  and  com- 
mand, 

That  the  Egyptian  and  Chaldean  strangers, 
Known  by  the  name  of  Gypsies,  shall  henceforth 
Be  banished  from  the  realm,  as  vagabonds 
And  beggars  ;  and  if,  after  seventy  days, 
Any  be  found  within  our  kingdom's  bounds, 
They  shall  receive  a  hundred  lashes  each ; 
The  second  time,  shall  have  their  ears  cut  off ; 
The  third,  be  slaves  for  life  to  him  who  takes 

them, 

Or  burnt  as  heretics.     Signed,  I,  the  King." 
Vile  miscreants  and  creatures  unbaptized ! 
You  hear  the  law !     Obey  and  disappear  ! 

Pancho.  And  if   in  seventy  days  you  are  not 

gone, 
Dead  or  alive  I  make  you  all  my  slaves. 

( The  Gypsies  go   out  in  confusion,  showing  signs  of  fear  and 
discontent.     PANCHO  follows.) 

Padre  C.  A  righteous  law  !     A  very  righteous 

law ! 
Pray  you,  sit  down. 


THE   SPANISH  STUDENT  161 

Pedro  C.  I  thank  you  heartily. 

(They  seat  themselves  on  a  bench  at  the  PADRE  CUBA'S  door. 
Sound  of  guitars  heard  at  a  distance,  approaching  during  the  dia- 
logue which  follows. ) 

A  very  righteous  judgment,  as  you  say. 

Now  tell  me,  Padre  Cura,  —  you  know  all  things,  — 

How  came  these  Gypsies  into  Spain  ? 

Padre  C.  Why,  look  you ; 

They  came  with  Hercules  from  Palestine, 
And  hence  are  thieves  and  vagrants,  Sir  Alcalde, 
As  the  Simoniacs  from  Simon  Magus. 
And,  look  you,  as  Fray  Jayme  Bleda  says, 
There  are  a  hundred  marks  to  prove  a  Moor 
Is  not  a  Christian,  so  't  is  with  the  Gypsies. 
They  never  marry,  never  go  to  mass, 
Never  baptize  their  children,  nor  keep  Lent, 
Nor  see  the  inside  of  a  church,  —  nor  —  nor  — 

Pedro  C.  Good  reasons,  good,  substantial  rea- 
sons all ! 

No  matter  for  the  other  ninety-five. 
They  should  be  burnt,  I  see  it  plain  enough, 
They  should  be  burnt. 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOIJTO  playing. ) 

Padre  C.  And  pray,  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Pedro  C.  More  vagrants !     By  Saint  Lazarus, 
more  vagrants ! 

Hyp.  Good  evening,  gentlemen  I     Is  this  Gua- 
darrama  ? 

Padre  C.  Yes,  Guadarrama,  and  good  evening 
to  you. 

Hyp.  We  seek  the  Padre  Cura  of  the  village ; 
And,  judging  from  your  dress  and  reverend  mien, 
5fou  must  be  he. 


162  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Padre  C.      I  am.      Pray,  what's  your  pleas- 
ure ? 

Hyp.  We  are  poor  students  travelling  in  vaca- 
tion. 
You  know  this  mark  ? 

( Touching  the  wooden  spoon  in  his  hat-band. ) 

Padre  C.   {joyfully).  Ay,  know  it,  and  have 
worn  it. 

Pedro  C.  (aside).  Soup-eaters !    by  the  mass ! 

The  worst  of  vagrants  ! 

And  there  's  no  law  against  them.     Sir,  your  ser- 
vant. [Exit. 

Padre  C.  Your  servant,  Pedro  Crespo. 

Hyp.  Padre  Cura, 

From  the  first  moment  I  beheld  your  face, 
I  said  within  myself,  "  This  is  the  man  !  " 
There  is  a  certain  something  in  your  looks, 
A  certain  scholar-like  and  studious  something,  — 
You  understand,  —  which  cannot  be  mistaken  ; 
Which  marks  you  as  a  very  learned  man, 
In  fine,  as  one  of  us. 

Viet,  (aside).  What  impudence  ! 

Hyp.  As  we   approached,    I   said   to  my  com- 
panion, 

"  That  is  the  Padre  Cura  ;  mark  my  words !  " 
Meaning  your  Grace.     "  The  other  man,"  said  I, 
"  Who  sits  so  awkwardly  upon  the  bench, 
Must  be  the  sacristan." 

Padre  C.  Ah  !  said  you  so  ? 

Why,  that  was  Pedro  Crespo,  the  alcalde ! 

Hyp.  Indeed  !  you  much  astonish  me  !     His  air 
Was  not  so  full  of  dignity  and  grace 
As  an  alcalde's  should  be. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  163 

Padre  C.  That  is  true, 

He  's  out  of  humor  with  some  vagrant  Gypsies, 
Who  have  their  camp  here  in  the  neighborhood. 
There  's  nothing  so  undignified  as  anger. 

Hyp.  The  Padre  Cura  will  excuse  our  boldness, 
If,  from  his  well-known  hospitality, 
We  crave  a  lodging  for  the  night. 

Padre  C.  I  pray  you  ! 

You  do  me  honor !     I  am  but  too  happy 
To  have  such  guests  beneath  my  humble  roof. 
It  is  not  often  that  I  have  occasion 
To  speak  with  scholars  ;  and  Emollit  mores, 
Nee  sinit  esse  feros,  Cicero  says. 

Hyp.  'T  is  Ovid,  is  it  not? 

Padre  C.  No,  Cicero. 

Hyp.  Your  Grace  is  right.     You  are  the  better 

scholar. 

Now  what  a  dunce  was  I  to  think  it  Ovid  ! 
But  hang  me  if  it  is  not !     {Aside.) 

Padre  C.  Pass  this  way. 

He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Pray  you,  go  in,  go  in  !  no  ceremony.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  room  in  the  PADRE  CUBA'S  house.     Enter  the 
PADRE  and  HYPOLITO. 

Padre  C.  So  then,  Senor,  you  come  from  Alcala. 
I  am  glad  to  hear  it.     It  was  there  I  studied. 

Hyp.  And   left   behind   an   honored   name,  no 

doubt. 
How  may  I  call  your  Grace  ? 

Padre  C.  Gerdnimo 

De  Santillana,  at  your  Honor's  service. 

Hyp.  Descended  from  the  Marquis  Santillana? 
From  the  distinguished  poet  ? 


164  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Padre  C.  From  the  Marquis, 

Not  from  the  poet. 

Hyp.  Why,  they  were  the  same. 

Let  me  embrace  you !     Oh,  some  lucky  star 
Has  brought  me  hither  !     Yet  once  more  !  —  once 

more! 

Your  name  is  ever  green  in  Alcala, 
And  our  professor,  when  we  are  unruly, 
Will  shake  his  hoary  head,  and  say,  "  Alas  ! 
It  was  not  so  in  Santillana's  time !  " 

Padre  C.  I  did  not  think  my  name  remembered 
there. 

Hyp.  More  than  remembered ;  it  is  idolized. 

Padre  C.  Of  what  professor  speak  you  ? 

Hyp.  Timoneda. 

Padre  C.  I  don't  remember  any  Timoneda. 

Hyp.  A  grave  and  sombre  man,  whose  beetling 

brow 

O'erhangs  the  rushing  current  of  his  speech 
As  rocks  o'er  rivers  hang.     Have  you  forgotten  ? 

Padre  C.  Indeed,  I  have.    Oh,  those  were  pleas- 
ant days, 

Those  college  days  !     I  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  ! 
I  had  not  buried  then  so  many  hopes ! 
I  had  not  buried  then  so  many  friends  ! 
I  've  turned  my  back  on  what  was  then  before  me ; 
And  the  bright  faces  of  my  young  companions 
Are  wrinkled  like  my  own,  or  are  no  more. 
Do  you  remember  Cueva? 

Hyp.  Cueva?  Cueva? 

Padre  C.  Fool  that  I  am !     He  was  before  your 

time. 
You  're  a  mere  boy,  and  I  am  an  old  man. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  165 

Hyp.  I  should  not  like  to  try  my  strength  with 

you. 
Padre  C.  Well,  well.     But  I  forget ;  you  must 

be  hungry. 
Martina !  ho  !  Martina !     'T  is  my  niece. 

(Enter  MARTINA.) 

Hyp.  You  may  be  proud  of  such  a  niece  as  that, 
I  wish  I  had  a  niece.     Emollit  mores.     (^Aside.^) 
He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Your  servant,  fair  Martina. 

Mart.  Servant,  sir. 

Padre  C.  This  gentleman  is  hungry.     See  thou 

to  it. 
Let  us  have  supper. 

Mart.  'T  will  be  ready  soon. 

Padre  C.  And  bring  a  bottle  of   my  Val-de- 

Penas 

Out  of  the  cellar.     Stay ;  I  '11  go  myself. 
Pray  you,  Senor,  excuse  me.  [Exit.. 

Hyp.  Hist !  Martina  ! 

One  word  with  you.     Bless  me  !   what  handsome 

eyes ! 

To-day  there  have  been  Gypsies  in  the  village. 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

Mart.  There  have  been  Gypsies  here. 

Hyp.  Yes,  and  have  told  your  fortune. 
Mart,  (embarrassed}.     Told  my  fortune  ? 
Hyp.  Yes,  yes ;   I  know  they  did.      Give  me 

your  hand. 
I  '11  tell  you  what  they  said.     They  said,  —  they 

said, 

The  shepherd  boy  that  loved  you  was  a  clown, 
And  him  you  should  not  marry.     Was  it  not  ? 


166  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Mart,  (surprised).     How  know  you  that  ? 

Hyp.  Oh,  I  know  more  than  that. 
What  a  soft,  little  hand  !     And  then  they  said, 
A  cavalier  from  court,  handsome,  and  tall 
And  rich,  should  come  one  day  to  marry  you, 
And  you  should  be  a  lady.     Was  it  not  ? 
He  has  arrived,  the  handsome  cavalier. 
( Tries  to  kiss  her.     She  runs  off".     Enter  VICTORIAN,  with  a  letter.} 

Viet.  The  muleteer  has  come. 

Hyp.  So  soon  ? 

Viet.  I  found  him 

Sitting  at  supper  by  the  tavern  door, 
And,  from  a  pitcher  that  he  held  aloft 
His  whole  arm's  length,  drinking  the  blood-red 
wine. 

Hyp.  What  news  from  Court  ? 
Viet.     He  brought  this  letter  only.     (Reads.} 
Oh,  cursed  perfidy  !     Why  did  I  let 
That  lying  tongue  deceive  me  !     Preciosa, 
Sweet  Preciosa  I  how  art  thou  avenged  ! 

Hyp.  What  news  is  this,  that  makes  thy  cheek 

turn  pale, 
And  thy  hand  tremble  ? 

Viet.  Oh,  most  infamous  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  worthless  villain  ! 

Hyp.  That  is  no  news,  forsooth. 

Viet.  He  strove  in  vain 

To  steal  from  me  the  jewel  of  my  soul, 
The  love  of  Preciosa.     Not  succeeding, 
He  swore  to  be  revenged ;  and  set  on  foot 
A  plot  to  ruin  her,  which  has  succeeded. 
She  has  been  hissed  and  hooted  from  the  stage, 
Her  reputation  stained  by  slanderous  lies 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  167 

Too  foul  to  speak  of ;  and,  once  more  a  beggar, 
She  roams  a  wanderer  over  God's  green  earth, 
Housing  with  Gypsies  ! 

Hyp.  To  renew  again 

The  Age  of  Gold,  and  make  the  shepherd  swains 
Desperate  with  love,  like  Gasper  Gil's  Diana. 
Redit  et  Virgo  ! 

Viet.  Dear  Hypolito, 

How  have  I  wronged  that  meek,  confiding  heart ! 
I  will  go  seek  for  her ;  and  with  my  tears 
Wash  out  the  wrong  I  've  done  her ! 

Hyp.  Oh,  beware ! 

Act  not  that  folly  o'er  again. 

Viet.  Ay,  folly, 

Delusion,  madness,  call  it  what  thou  wilt, 
I  will  confess  my  weakness,  —  I  still  love  her  I 
Still  fondly  love  her  ! 

(Enter  the  PADRE  CTJRA.) 

Hyp.  Tell  us,  Padre  Cura, 

Who  are  these  Gypsies  in  the  neighborhood  ? 

Padre  C.  Beltran  Cruzado  and  his  crew. 

Viet.  Kind  Heaven, 

I  thank  thee  !     She  is  found  !  is  found  again  ! 

Hyp.  And  have  they  with  them  a  pale,  beau- 
tiful girl, 
Called  Preciosa? 

Padre  C.  Ay,  a  pretty  girl. 

The  gentleman  seems  moved. 

Hyp.  Yes,  moved  with  hunger, 

He  is  half  famished  with  this  long  day's  journey. 

Padre  C.  Then,  pray  you,  come  this  way.    The 
supper  waits.  [Exeunt. 


168  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  post-house  on  the  road  to  Segovia,  not  far  from 
the  village  of  Guadarrama.  Enter  CHISPA,  cracking  a  whip, 
and  singing  the  cachucha. 

Chispa.  Halloo !  Don  Fulano !  Let  us  have 
horses,  and  quickly.  Alas,  poor  Chispa  !  what  a 
dog's  life  dost  thou  lead  !  I  thought,  when  I  left 
my  old  master  Victorian,  the  student,  to  serve  my 
new  master  Don  Carlos,  the  gentleman,  that  I,  too, 
should  lead  the  life  of  a  gentleman ;  should  go  to 
bed  early,  and  get  up  late.  For  when  the  abbot 
plays  cards,  what  can  you  expect  of  the  friars  ? 
But,  in  running  away  from  the  thunder,  I  have 
run  into  the  lightning.  Here  I  am  in  hot  chase 
after  my  master  and  his  Gypsy  girl.  And  a  good 
beginning  of  the  week  it  is,  as  he  said  who  was 
hanged  on  Monday  morning. 

(Enter  Dox  CARLOS.) 

Don  C.  Are  not  the  horses  ready  yet  ? 

Chispa.  I  should  think  not,  for  the  hostler 
seems  to  be  asleep.  Ho  !  within  there  !  Horses  ! 
horses  !  horses  !  (He  knocks  at  the  gate  with  his 
whip,  and  enter  MOSQUITO,  putting  on  his  jacket.} 

Mosq.  Pray,  have  a  little  patience. 
I  'm  not  a  musket. 

Chispa.  Health  and  pistareens !  I  'm  glad  to 
see  you  come  on  dancing,  padre !  Pray,  what 's 
the  news  ? 

Mosq.  You  cannot  have  fresh  horses ;  because 
there  are  none. 

Chispa.  Cachiporra !  Throw  that  bone  to  an- 
other dog.  Do  I  look  like  your  aunt  ? 

Mosq.  No  ;  she  has  a  beard. 

Chispa.  Go  to  !  go  to  ! 

Mosq.  Are  you  from  Madrid  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  169 

CMspa.  Yes  ;  and  going  to  Estramadura.  Get 
us  horses. 

Mosq.  What  's  the  news  at  Court  ? 

Chispa.  Why,  the  latest  news  is,  that  I  am 
going  to  set  up  a  coach,  and  I  have  already  bought 
the  whip. 

(Strikes  him  round  the  legs.) 

Mosq.  Oh  !  oh  !  you  hurt  me  ! 

Don  C.  Enough  of  this  folly.  Let  us  have 
horses.  (Gives  money  to  MOSQUITO.)  It  is 
almost  dark ;  and  we  are  in  haste.  But  tell  me, 
has  a  band  of  Gypsies  passed  this  way  of  late  ? 

Mosq.  Yes  ;  and  they  are  still  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

Don  C.  And  where  ? 

Mosq.  Across  the  fields  yonder,  in  the  woods 
near  Guadarrama.  [Exit. 

Don  C.  Now  this  is  lucky.  We  will  visit  the 
Gypsy  camp. 

Chispa.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  the  evil  eye  ? 
Have  you  a  stag's  horn  with  you  ? 

Don  C.  Fear  not.  We  will  pass  the  night  at 
the  village. 

Chispa.  And  sleep  like  the  Squires  of  Hernan 
Daza,  nine  under  one  blanket. 

Don  C.  I  hope  we  may  find  the  Preciosa  among 
them. 

Chispa.  Among  the  Squires  ? 

Don  C.  No ;  among  the  Gypsies,  blockhead  ! 
Chispa.  I  hope  we  may  ;  for  we  are  giving  our- 
selves trouble  enough  on  her  account.     Don't  you 
think   so  ?     However,  there   is  no  catching  trout 
without  wetting  one's  trousers.     Yonder  come  the 

horses.  {Exeunt. 


170  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

SCENE   V.  —  The  Gypsy  camp  in  the  forest.     Night.     Gypsies 
working  at  a  forge.     Others  playing  cards  by  the  firelight. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing*). 

On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand, 
With  a  crown  of  red  gold  in  my  hand, 
Wild  Moors  come  trooping  over  the  lea, 
Oh  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee,  flee,  flee  ? 
Oh  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee  ? 

First  Gypsy  (playing}.  Down  with  your  John- 
Dorados,  my  pigeon.    Down  with  your  John-Dora- 
dos, and  let  us  make  an  end. 
Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier, 

And  thus  his  ditty  ran  ; 
God  send  the  Gypsy  lassie  here, 
And  not  the  Gypsy  man. 

First  Gypsy  (playing}.  There  you  are  in  your 
morocco  ! 

Second  Gypsy.  One  more  game.  The  Alcalde's 
doves  against  the  Padre  Cura's  new  moon. 

First   Gypsy.  Have  at  you,  Chirelin. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing}. 

At  midnight,  when  the  moon  began 

To  show  her  silver  flame, 
There  came  to  him  no  Gypsy  man, 

The  Gypsy  lassie  came. 

(Enter  BELTRAN  CRUZADO.) 

Cruz.  Come  hither,  Murcigalleros  and  Rastil- 
leros ;  leave  work,  leave  play ;  listen  to  your  or- 
ders for  the  night.  (Speaking  to  the  right.}  You 
will  get  you  to  the  village,  mark  you,  by  the  stone 
cross. 

Gypsies.  Ay! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  171 

Cruz,  (to  the  left}.  And  you,  by  the  pole  with 
the  hermit's  head  upon  it. 

Gypsies.  Ay ! 

Cruz.  As  soon  as  you  see  the  planets  are  out,  in 
with  you,  and  be  busy  with  the  ten  commandments, 
under  the  sly,  and  Saint  Martin  asleep.  D'  ye 
hear  ? 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz.  Keep  your  lanterns  open,  and,  if  you  see 
a  goblin  or  a  papagayo,  take  to  your  trampers. 
Vineyards  and  Dancing  John  is  the  word.  Am  I 
comprehended  ? 

Gypsies.  Ay  !  ay  ! 

Cruz.  Away,  then  ! 

(Exeunt  severally.     CRUZADO  walks  up  the  stage,  and  disappears 
among  the  trees.     Enter  PKKCIOSA.  ) 

Free.  How  strangely  gleams  through  the  gigan- 
tic trees, 
The  red  light  of  the   forge  !     Wild,   beckoning 

shadows 

Stalk  through  the  forest,  ever  and  anon 
Rising  and  bending  with  the  flickering  flame, 
Then  flitting  into  darkness !     So  within  me 
Strange  hopes  and  fears  do  beckon  to  each  other, 
My  brightest  hopes  giving  dark  fears  a  being 
As  the  light  does  the  shadow.     Woe  is  me  ! 
How  still  it  is  about  me,  and  how  lonely  ! 
(BARTOLOMJS  rushes  in.) 

Bart.  Ho  !  Preciosa  ! 

free.  O  Bartolome*  ! 

Thou  here  ? 

Bart.         Lo  !  I  am  here. 

Prec.  Whence  comest  thou  ? 


172  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Bart.  From  the  rough  ridges  of  the  wild  Sierra, 
From  caverns  in  the  rocks,  from  hunger,  thirst, 
And  fever  !     Like  a  wild  wolf  to  the  sheepfold 
Come  I  for  thee,  my  lamb. 

Prec.  Oh,  touch  me  not  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara's  blood  is  on  thy  hands  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara's  curse  is  on  thy  soul  ! 
Do  not  come  near  me  !     Pray,  begone  from  here  ! 
Thou  art  in  danger  !     They  have  set  a  price 
Upon  thy  head  ! 

Bart.  Ay,  and  I  've  wandered  long 

Among  the  mountains  ;  and  for  many  days 
Have  seen  no  human  face,  save  the  rough  swine- 
herd's. 

The  wind  and  rain  have  been  my  sole  companions. 
I  shouted  to  them  from  the  rocks  thy  name, 
And  the  loud  echo  sent  it  back  to  me, 
Till  I  grew  mad.     I  could  not  stay  from  thee, 
And  I  am  here  !     Betray  me,  if  thou  wilt. 

Prec.  Betray  thee  ?     I  betray  thee  ? 

Bart.  Preciosa ! 

I  come  for  thee !  for  thee  I  thus  brave  death  ! 
Fly  with  me  o'er  the  borders  of  this  realm  ! 
Fly  with  me  ! 

Prec.  Speak  of  that  no  more.     I  cannot. 

I  'm  thine  no  longer. 

Bart.  Oh,  recall  the  time 

When  we  were  children  !  how  we  played  together, 
How  we  grew  up  together  ;  how  we  plighted 
Our  hearts  unto  each  other,  even  in  childhood  ! 
Fulfil  thy  promise,  for  the  hour  has  come. 
I  'm  hunted  from  the  kingdom,  like  a  wolf ! 
Fulfil  thy  promise. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  173 

free.  'T  was  my  father's  promise, 

Not  mine.     I  never  gave  my  heart  to  thee, 
Nor  promised  thee  my  hand ! 

Bart.  False  tongue  of  woman  ! 

And  heart  more  false ! 

Free.  Nay,  listen  unto  me. 

I  will  speak  frankly.     I  have  never  loved  thee  ; 
I  cannot  love  thee.     This  is  not  my  fault, 
It  is  my  destiny.     Thou  art  a  man 
Restless   and  violent.     What  wouldst  thou  with 

me, 

A  feeble  girl,  who  have  not  long  to  live, 
Whose  heart  is  broken?     Seek  another  wife, 
Better  than  I,  and  fairer ;  and  let  not 
Thy  rash  and  headlong  moods  estrange  her  from 

thee. 

Thou  art  unhappy  in  this  hopeless  passion. 
I  never  sought  thy  love  ;  never  did  aught 
To  make  thee  love  me.     Yet  I  pity  thee, 
And  most  of  all  I  pity  thy  wild  heart, 
That  hurries  thee  to  crimes  and  deeds  of  blood. 
Beware,  beware  of  that. 

Bart.  For  thy  dear  sake 

I  will  be  gentle.     Thou  shalt  teach  me  patience. 

Prec.     Then  take  this  farewell,  and  depart  in 

peace. 
Thou  must  not  linger  here. 

Bart.  Come,  come  with  me. 

Prec.  Hark !  I  hear  footsteps. 

Bart.  I  entreat  thee,  come  ! 

Prec.  Away !     It  is  in  vain. 

Bart.  Wilt  thou  not  come  ? 

Prec.  Never! 


174  THE   SPANISH  STUDENT 

Bart.  Then  woe,  eternal  woe,  upon  thee! 

Thou  shalt  not  be  another's.     Thou  shalt  die. 

[Exit. 

Prec.  All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this  hour ! 
Spirit  of  her  who  bore  me,  look  upon  me  ! 
Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect  me ! 
Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto  me  ! 
Yet  why  should  I  fear   death  ?     What  is  it  to 

die? 

To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and  sorrow, 
To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and  unkindness, 
All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair, 
And  be  at  rest  forever  !     O  dull  heart, 
Be  of  good  cheer !     When  thou  shalt  cease  to 

beat, 
Then  shalt  thou  cease  to  suffer  and  complain! 

(Enter  VICTORIAN  and  HYPOLITO  behind. ) 

Viet.     'T  is    she !     Behold,   how  beautiful  she 

stands 
Under  the  tent-like  trees  ! 

Hyp.  A  woodland  nymph  ! 

Viet.  I  pray  thee,  stand  aside.     Leave  me. 

Hyp.  Be  wary. 

Do  not  betray  thyself  too  soon. 

Viet,  (disguising  his  voice).     Hist !  Gypsy ! 

Prec.   (aside,  with  emotion).     That  voice  !  that 

voice  from  heaven !     Oh  speak  again  ! 
Who  is  it  calls  ? 

Viet.  A  friend. 

Prec.  (aside).  'T  is  he  !     'T  is  he 

I  thank  thee,  Heaven,  that   thou  hast  heard  my 

prayer, 
And  sent  me  this  protector  !     Now  be  strong, 


THE  SPANISH   STUDENT  175 

Be  strong,  my  heart !     I  must  dissemble  here. 
False  friend  or  true  ? 

Viet.  A  true  friend  to  the  true ; 

Fear  not ;    come  hither.     So ;    can   you  tell    for- 
tunes ? 

Prec.  Not   in  the  dark.      Come  nearer  to  the 

fire. 
Give  me  your  hand.      It  is  not  crossed,  I  see. 

Viet,   (putting  a  piece  of  gold  into  her  hand). 
There  is  the  cross. 

Prec.  Is  't  silver  ? 

Viet.  No,  't  is  gold. 

Prec.  There 's  a  fair  lady   at   the   Court,  who 

loves  you, 
And  for  yourself  alone. 

Viet.  Fie  !  the  old  story  ! 

Tell  me  a  better  fortune  for  my  money ; 
Not  this  old  woman's  tale ! 

Prec.  You  are  passionate  ; 

And  this  same  passionate  humor  in  your  blood 
Has  marred  your  fortune.     Yes ;  I  see  it  now  ; 
The  line  of  life  is  crossed  by  many  marks. 
Shame !  shame  !     Oh,  you  have  wronged  the  maid 

who  loved  you ! 
How  could  you  do  it  ? 

Viet.  I  never  loved  a  maid  ; 

For  she  I  loved  was  then  a  maid  no  more. 

Prec.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Viet.  A  little  bird  in  the  air 

Whispered  the  secret. 

Prec.  There,  take  back  your  gold ! 

Your  hand  is  cold,  like  a  deceiver's  hand ! 
There  is  no  blessing  in  its  charity  I 


176  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Make  her  your  wife,  for  you  have  been  abused  ; 
And  you  shall  mend  your  fortunes,  mending  hers. 

Viet,  (aside).     How  like  an  angel's  speaks  the 

tongue  of  woman, 

When  pleading  in  another's  cause  her  own ! 
That  is  a  pretty  ring  upon  your  finger. 
Pray  give  it  ine.     (Tries  to  take  the  ring.') 

free.  No  ;  never  from  my  hand 

Shall  that  be  taken ! 

Viet.  Why,  't  is  but  a  ring. 

I  '11  give  it  back  to  you ;  or,  if  I  keep  it, 
Will  give  you  gold  to  buy  you  twenty  such. 

free.  Why  would  you  have  this  ring  ? 

Viet.  A  traveller's  fancy, 

A  whim,  and  nothing  more.     I  would  fain  keep  it 
As  a  memento  of  the  Gypsy  camp 
In  Guadarrama,  and  the  fortune-teller 
Who  sent  me  back  to  wed  a  widowed  maid. 
Pray,  let  me  have  the  ring. 

free.  No,  never  !  never ! 

I  will  not  part  with  it,  even  when  I  die ; 
But  bid  my  nurse  fold  my  pale  fingers  thus, 
That  it  may  not  fall  from  them.     'T  is  a  token 
Of  a  beloved  friend,  who  is  no  more. 

Viet.  How?  dead? 

Prec.  Yes  ;  dead  to  me  ;  and  worse  than  dead. 
He  is  estranged !     And  yet  I  keep  this  ring. 
I  will  rise  with  it  from  my  grave  hereafter, 
To  prove  to  him  that  I  was  never  false. 

Viet,  (aside).    Be  still,  my  swelling  heart !  one 

moment,  still ! 

Why,  't  is  the  folly  of  a  love-sick  girl. 
Come,  give  it  me,  or  I  will  say  't  is  mine, 
And  that  you  stole  it. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  177 

Prec.  Oh,  you  will  not  dare 

To  utter  such  a  falsehood  ! 

Viet.  I  not  dare  ? 

Look  in  my  face,  and  say  if  there  is  aught 
I  have  not  dared,  I  would  not  dare  for  thee  / 

(She  rushes  into  his  arms. ) 

Prec.  'T  is   thou !  't  is   thou !     Yes ;   yes ;   my 

heart's  elected ! 

My  dearest-dear  Victorian  !  my  soul's  heaven ! 
Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ?     Why  didst  thou 

leave  me  ? 

Viet.  Ask  me  not   now,  my  dearest  Preciosa. 
Let  me  forget  we  ever  have  been  parted  ! 
Prec.  Hadst  thou  not  come  — 
Viet.  I  pray  thee,  do  not  chide  me  ! 

Prec.  I  should  have  perished  here  among  these 

Gypsies. 
Viet.  Forgive  me,  sweet !  for  what  I  made  thee 

suffer. 

Think'st  thou  this  heart  could  feel  a  moment's  joy, 
Thou  being  absent  ?     Oh,  believe  it  not ! 
Indeed,  since  that  sad  hour  I  have  not  slept, 
For  thinking  of  the  wrong  I  did  to  thee  ! 
Dost  thou  forgive  me  ?    Say,  wilt  thou  forgive  me  ? 
Prec.  I  have  forgiven  thee.    Ere  those  words  of 

anger 
Were  in  the  book  of  Heaven  writ  down  against 

thee, 
I  had  forgiven  thee. 

Viet.  I  'm  the  veriest  fool 

That  walks  the  earth,  to  have  believed  thee  false. 
It  was  the  Count  of  Lara  — 

Line  2.     To  utter  such  a  fiendish  lie  I 

Line  &  Not  dare  ? 


178  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

free.  That  bad  man 

Has  worked  me  harm  enough.     Hast   thou   not 

heard  — 
Viet.  I   have   heard  all.     And   yet   speak  on, 

speak  on ! 

Let  me  but  hear  thy  voice,  and  I  am  happy ; 
For  every  tone,  like  some  sweet  incantation, 
Calls  up  the  buried  past  to  plead  for  me. 
Speak,  my  beloved,  speak  into  my  heart, 
Whatever  fills  and  agitates  thine  own. 

(They  walk  aside.) 

Hyp.  All  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pastoral  poets, 
All  passionate  love-scenes  in  the  best  romances, 
All  chaste  embraces  on  the  public  stage, 
All  soft  adventures,  which  the  liberal  stars 
Have  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course  of  things, 
Have    been    surpassed    here    by  my   friend,   the 

student, 
And  this  sweet  Gypsy  lass,  fair  Preciosa ! 

free.  Senor  Hypolito !    I  kiss  your  hand. 
Pray,  shall  I  tell  your  fortune  ? 

Hyp.  Not  to-night ; 

For,  should  you  treat  me  as  you  did  Victorian, 
And  send  me  back  to  marry  maids  forlorn, 
My  wedding  day  would  last  from  now  till  Christ- 
mas. 

Chispa  (within).  What  ho !  the  Gypsies,  ho ! 

Beltran  Cruzado  ! 
Halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo ! 

(Enters  booted,  with  a  whip  and  lantern. ) 

Viet.  What  now  ? 

Why    such    a    fearful    din  ?      Hast    thou    been 
robbed  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  179 

Chispa.  Ay,  robbed  and  murdered;   and  good 

evening  to  you, 
My  worthy  masters. 

Viet.  Speak ;  what  brings  thee  here  ? 

CMspa  (to  PRECIOSA).    Good  news  from  Court ; 

good  news  !     Beltran  Cruzado, 
The  Count  of  the  Gale's,  is  not  your  father, 
But  your  true  father  has  returned  to  Spain 
Laden  with  wealth.     You  are  no  more  a  Gypsy. 
Viet.  Strange  as  a  Moorish  tale  ! 
Chispa.  And  we  have  all 

Been  drinking  at  the  tavern  to  your  health, 
As  wells  drink  in  November,  when  it  rains. 
Viet.  Where  is  the  gentleman  ? 
Chispa.  As  the  old  song  says, 

His  body  is  in  Segovia, 
His  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

Prec.  Is  this  a  dream  ?     Oh,  if  it  be  a  dream, 
Let  me  sleep  on,  and  do  not  wake  me  yet ! 
Repeat  thy  story  !     Say  I  'm  not  deceived  ! 
Say  that  I  do  not  dream  !     I  am  awake  ; 
This  is  the  Gypsy  camp  ;  this  is  Victorian, 
And  this  his  friend,  Hypolito  !     Speak  !  speak  ! 
Let  me  not  wake  and  find  it  all  a  dream  I 

Viet.  It   is   a   dream,  sweet   child!    a  waking 

dream, 

A  blissful  certainty,  a  vision  bright 
Of  that  rare  happiness,  which  even  on  earth 
Heaven  gives  to  those  it  loves.    Now  art  thou  rich, 
As  thou  wast  ever  beautiful  and  good ; 
And  I  am  now  the  beggar. 

Prec.  (giving  him  her  hand).  I  have  still 
A.  hand  to  give. 


180  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Chispa  (aside).  And  I  have  two  to  take. 
I  've   heard   my   grandmother   say,  that   Heaven 

gives  almonds 

To  those  who  have  no  teeth.    That 's  nuts  to  crack. 
I  've  teeth  to  spare,  but  where  shall  I  find  almonds  1 

Viet.  What  more  of  this  strange  story  ? 

CJii&pa.  Nothing  more. 

Your  friend,  Don  Carlos,  is  now  at  the  village 
Showing  to  Pedro  Crespo,  the  Alcalde, 
The  proofs  of  what  I  tell  you.     The  old  hag, 
Who  stole  you  in  your  childhood,  has  confessed  ; 
And  probably  they  '11  hang  her  for  the  crime, 
To  make  the  celebration  more  complete. 

Viet.  No ;  let  it  be  a  day  of  general  joy ; 
Fortune  comes  well  to  all,  that  comes  not  late. 
Now  let  us  join  Don  Carlos. 

Hyp.  So  farewell, 

The  student's  wandering  life  !     Sweet  serenades, 
Sung  under  ladies'  windows  in  the  night, 
And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful  1 
To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Alcala, 
To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance, 
Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by  truth, 
The  Bachelor  Hypolito  returns, 
And  leaves  the  Gypsy  with  the  Spanish  Student. 

SCENE  VI.  —  A  pass  in  the  Guadarrama  mountains.  Early  morn- 
ing. A  muleteer  crosses  the  stage,  sitting  sideways  on  his  mule^ 
and  lighting  a  paper  cigar  urith  flint  and  steel. 

SONG. 

If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake  and  open  thy  door, 
'T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away 

O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  181 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet ; 
We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  grass, 

And  waters  wide  and  fleet. 

(Disappears  down  the  pass.     Enter  a  Monk.     A  Shepherd  appears 
on  the  rocks  above. ) 

Monk.  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.  Ola !  good 
man ! 

Shep.  Ola! 

Monk.  Is  this  the  road  to  Segovia  ? 

Shep.  It  is,  your  reverence. 

Monk.  How  far  is  it  ? 

Shep.  I  do  not  know. 

Monk.  What  is  that  yonder  in  the  valley  ? 

Shep.  San  Ildefonso. 

Monk.  A  long  way  to  breakfast. 

Shep.  Ay,  marry. 

Monk.  Are  there  robbers  in  these  mountains  ? 

Shep.  Yes,  and  worse  than  that. 

Monk.  What? 

Shep.  Wolves. 

Monk.  Santa  Maria  !  Come  with  me  to  San 
Ildefonso,  and  thou  shalt  be  well  rewarded. 

Shep.  What  wilt  thou  give  me  ? 

Monk.  An  Agnus  Dei  and  my  benediction. 

\They  disappear.  A  mounted  Contrabandista  passes  wrapped  in 
his  cloak,  and  a  gun  at  his  saddle-bow.  He  goes  down  the  pass 
singing. ) 

SONG. 

Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 
And  I  march  me  hurried,  worried  ; 
Onward,  caballito  mio, 
With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead  ! 

Line  23.     Worn  with  speed  is  my  caballo, 


182  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

Onward,  for  here  comes  the  Honda, 
And  I  hear  their  rifles  crack  ! 
Ay,  jale"o  !     Ay,  ay,  jaleo  ! 
Ay,  jaleo  !     They  cross  our  track. 

(Song  dies  away.  Enter  PKECIOSA,  on  horseback,  attended  by 
VICTORIAN,  HYPOLITO,  DON  CARLOS,  and  CHISPA,  on  foot  and 
armed. ) 

Viet.    This  is  the  highest  point.    Here  let  us  rest. 
See,  Freciosa,  see  how  all  about  us 
Kneeling,  like  hooded  friars,  the  misty  mountains 
Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun  ! 
O  glorious  sight  ! 

free.  Most  beautiful  indeed  ! 

Hyp.  Most  wonderful  ! 

Viet.  And  in  the  vale  below, 

Where  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted  halberds, 
San  Ildefonso,  from  its  noisy  belfries, 
Sends  up  a  salutation  to  the  morn, 
As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields, 
And  shouted  victory ! 

Prec.  And  which  way  lies 

Segovia  ? 

Viet.       At  a  great  distance  yonder. 
Dost  thou  not  see  it  ? 

Prec.  No.     I  do  not  see  it. 

Viet.  The  merest  flaw  that  dents  the  horizon's 

edge, 
There,  yonder  ! 

Hyp.  'T  is  a  notable  old  town, 

Boasting  an  ancient  Roman  aqueduct, 
And  an  Alcazar,  builded  by  the  Moors, 
Wherein,  you  may  remember,  poor  Gil  Bias 
Was  fed  on  Pan  del  Hey.     Oh,  many  a  time 
Out  of  its  grated  windows  have  I  looked 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT  183 

Hundreds  of  feet  plumb  down  to  the  Eresma, 
That,  like  a  serpent  through  the  valley  creeping, 
Glides  at  its  foot. 

Prec.  Oh  yes  !  I  see  it  now, 

Yet  rather  with  my  heart  than  with  mine  eyes, 
So  faint  it  is.     And  all  my  thoughts  sail  thither, 
Freighted  with  prayers  and  hopes,  and  forward 

urged 

Against  all  stress  of  accident,  as  in 
The  Eastern  Tale,  against  the  wind  and  tide 
Great  ships  were  drawn  to  the  Magnetic  Moun- 
tains, 
And  there  were  wrecked,  and  perished  in  the  sea  ! 

{She  weeps.) 

Viet.    O    gentle  spirit  !     Thou  didst  bear  un- 
moved 

Blasts  of  adversity  and  frosts  of  fate  ! 
But  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  falls  on  thee 
Melts  thee  to  tears  !  Oh,  let  thy  weary  heart 
Lean  upon  mine  !  and  it  shall  faint  no  more, 
Nor  thirst,  nor  hunger  ;  but  be  comforted 
And  filled  with  my  affection. 

free.  Stay  no  longer  ! 

My  father  waits.     Methinks  I  see  him  there, 
Now  looking  from  the  window,  and  now  watching 
Each  sound  of  wheels  or  footfall  in  the  street, 
And  saying,    "  Hark !  she  comes  !  "     O   father  ! 
father ! 
( They  descend  the  pass.     CHISPA  remains  behind. ) 

Chispa.  I  have  a  father,  too,  but  he  is  a  dead 
one.  Alas  and  alack-a-day  !  Poor  was  I  born, 
and  poor  do  I  remain.  I  neither  win  nor  lose. 
Thus  I  wag  through  the  world,  half  the  time  on 


184  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT 

foot,  and  the  other  half  walking ;  and  always  as 
merry  as  a  thunder-storm  in  the  night.  And  so 
we  plough  along,  as  the  fly  said  to  the  ox.  Who 
knows  what  may  happen  ?  Patience,  and  shuffle 
the  cards  !  I  am  not  yet  so  bald  that  you  can  see 
my  brains  ;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  I  shall  some 
day  go  to  Rome,  and  come  back  Saint  Peter. 
Benedicite  !  [Exit. 

(A  pause.     Then  enter  BARTOLOME  wildly,  as  if  in  pursuit,  with  a 
carbine  in  his  hand. ) 

Bart.    They   passed    this    way.     I   hear   their 

horses'  hoofs  ! 

Yonder  I  see  them !     Come,  sweet  caramillo, 
This  serenade  shall  be  the  Gypsy's  last  ! 

(Fires  down  the  pass. ) 

Ha  !  ha  !     Well  whistled,  my  sweet  caramillo  ! 
Well  whistled  !  —  I  have  missed  her  !  —  O  my 
God! 
(The  shot  is  returned. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND 
OTHER  POEMS 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges  and  other  Poems  was 
published  December  23,  1845,  but  the  greater  part 
of  the  volume  had  already  appeared  in  the  illus- 
trated edition  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poems  published 
earlier  in  the  year  in  Philadelphia,  as  well  as  in 
the  pages  of  Graham's  Magazine,  which  at  this 
time  was  the  most  frequent  vehicle  of  his  writing. 

The  poem  which  gives  the  title  to  the  volume 
was  the  product  of  his  excursion  in  Europe  in  the 
summer  of  1842.  While  on  his  way  to  the  water- 
cure  at  Marienberg  on  the  Rhine,  he  spent  a  few 
days  in  Belgium,  and  here  is  the  entry  which  he 
makes  in  his  diary  :  — 

May  30.  In  the  evening  took  the  railway  from  Ghent 
to  Bruges.  Stopped  at  La  Fleur  de  Ble,  attracted  by 
the  name,  and  found  it  a  good  hotel.  It  was  not  yet 
night ;  and  I  strolled  through  the  fine  old  streets  and 
felt  myself  a  hundred  years  old.  The  chimes  seemed 
to  be  ringing  incessantly  ;  and  the  air  of  repose  and  an- 
tiquity was  delightful.  .  .  .  Oh,  those  chimes,  those 
chimes  !  how  deliciously  they  lull  one  to  sleep !  The 
little  bells,  with  their  clear,  liquid  notes,  like  the  voices 
of  boys  in  a  choir,  and  the  solemn  bass  of  the  great  bell 
tolling  in,  like  the  voice  of  a  friar  ! 


186  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

May  31.  Rose  before  five  and  climbed  the  high  bel- 
fry which  was  once  crowned  by  the  gilded  copper  dragon 
now  at  Ghent.  The  carillon  of  forty-eight  bells ;  the 
little  chamber  in  the  tower  ;  the  machinery,  like  a  huge 
barrel-organ,  with  keys  like  a  musical  instrument  for  the 
carilloneur  ;  the  view  from  the  tower ;  the  singing  of 
swallows  with  the  chimes  ;  the  fresh  morning  air ;  the 
mist  in  the  horizon  ;  the  red  roofs  far  below  ;  the  canal, 
like  a  silver  clasp,  linking  the  city  with  the  sea,  —  how 
much  to  remember ! 

The  poem  was  probably  begun  here  at  this  time 
and  finished  when,  a  little  later,  Mr.  Longfellow 
passed  through  the  place  again  on  his  return  home 
by  way  of  England.  From  some  expressions  in  a 
letter  to  Freiligrath  it  would  seem  that  this  poem 
and  Nuremberg  formed  part  of  a  plan  which  the 
poet  had  formed  of  a  series  of  travel-sketches  in 
verse,  a  plan  which  in  a  desultory  way  he  may  be 
said  to  have  been  executing  all  his  days  and  to 
have  carried  out  systematically  in  another  shape 
in  his  collection  of  Poems  of  Places.  The  Belfry 
of  Bruges  itself  appeared  in  Graham's  Magazine 
for  January,  1843. 

The  contents  of  this  division  are  the  same  as  in 
the  volume  so  entitled,  except  that  a  group  of  six 
translations  has  been  withheld,  to  be  placed  with 
the  other  translated  pieces  in  the  sixth  volume ; 
except  also  that  to  the  Sonnets  is  added  the  per- 
sonal one  entitled  Mezzo  Cammin,  written  at  this 
time  and  first  printed  in  the  Life. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 
CARILLON. 

IN  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 
As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended^ 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 
And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 
By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a  moment  woke  the  echoes 

Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I  heard  those  magic  numbers, 


188  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night ; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling  ; 
All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes, 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 
Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 
On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities ! 
For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 
And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 
Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 
But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas ! 
Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a  sleepless  wight, 
Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 
In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 
When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 
Shut  out  the  incessant  din 
Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 
May  listen  with  a  calm  delight 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  189 

To  the  poet's  melodies, 
Till  lie  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 
Intermingled  with  the  song, 
Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long; 
Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 
The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 
And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous  eyes 
Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 

Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I  lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening  with  a  wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 

IN  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry 

old  and  brown  ; 
Thrice   consumed    and   thrice    rebuilded,   still   it 

watches  o'er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that  lofty 

tower  I  stood, 
And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like  the 

weeds  of  widowhood. 

Thick  with  towns  and  hamlets  studded,  and  with 

streams  and  vapors  gray, 
Like  a  shield  embossed  with  silver,  round  and  vast 

the  landscape  lay. 


190  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.  From  its  chim- 
neys, here  and  there, 

Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascending,  van- 
ished, ghost-like,  into  air. 

Not  a  sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that  early  morn- 
ing hour, 

But  I  heard  a  heart  of  iron  beating  in  the  ancient 
tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  rafters  sang  the  swal- 
lows wild  and  high ; 

And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping,  seemed  more 
distant  than  the  sky. 

Then  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing  back  the 

olden  times, 
With  their  strange,  unearthly  changes  rang  the 

melancholy  chimes, 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister,  when  the 

nuns  sing  in  the  choir ; 
And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them,  like  the 

chanting  of  a  friar. 

Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy  phantoms 

filled  my  brain ; 
They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to  walk  the 

earth  again ; 

All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders,  —  mighty  Baldwin 

Bras  de  Fer, 
Lyderick  du   Bucq  and   Cressy,  Philip,  Guy  de 

Dampierre. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  191 

I  beheld  the  pageants  splendid  that  adorned  those 

days  of  old ; 
Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended,  knights  who 

bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold  ; 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with  deep-laden 

argosies ; 
Ministers  from  twenty  nations ;  more  than  royal 

pomp  and  ease. 

I  beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly  on 

the  ground ; 
I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her  hawk 

and  hound ; 

And   her  lighted   bridal-chamber,   where  a  duke 

slept  with  the  queen, 
And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and  the  sword 

unsheathed  between. 

I  beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur  and 

Juliers  bold, 
Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody  battle  of  the 

Spurs  of  Gold ; 

Saw   the   fight    at    Minnewater,  saw  the   White 

Hoods  moving  west, 
Saw  great  Artevelde  victorious  scale  the  Golden 

Dragon's  nest. 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land 
with  terror  smote ; 

And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from  the  toc- 
sin's throat ; 


192  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er  lagoon  and 

dike  of  sand, 
"  I  am  Roland  !  I  am  Roland  !  there  is  victory  in 

the  land ! " 

Then    the    sound    of    drums    aroused    me.     The 

awakened  city's  roar 
Chased  the  phantoms  I  had  summoned  back  into 

their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes ;  and,  before 
I  was  aware, 

Lol  the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun- 
illumined  square. 

A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

The  scene  of  this  poem  is  mentioned  in  the  poet's  diary,  under 
date  of  August  31,1846.  "  In  the  afternoon  a  delicious  drive  with 
F.  and  C.  through  Brookline,  by  the  church  and  '  the  green  lane,' 
and  homeward  through  a  lovelier  lane,  with  barberries  and  wild 
vines  clustering  over  the  old  stone  walls. ' ' 

THIS  is  the  place.     Stand  still,  my  steed, 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town ; 
There  the  green  lane  descends, 


A    GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE  193 

Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee, 
O  gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden  trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they : 
One  of  God's  holy  messengers 

Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 
The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born !  " 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 


194  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas !  the  place  seems  changed ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 
Like  pine  trees  dark  and  high, 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh ; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

On  his  wedding  journey  in  the  summer  of  1843,  Mr.  Longfel- 
low passed  through  Springfield,  Massachusetts,  and  visited  the 
United  States  arsenal  there,  in  company  with  Mr.  Charles  Sumner. 
"While  Mr.  Sumner  was  endeavoring,"  says  Mr.  S.  Longfellow, 
"  to  impress  upon  the  attendant  that  the  money  expended  upon 
these  weapons  of  war  would  have  been  much  better  spent  upon  a 
great  library,  Mrs.  Longfellow  pleased  her  husband  by  remark- 
ing' how  like  an  organ  looked  the  ranged  and  shining  gun-barrels 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD      195 

which  covered  the  walls  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  suggesting 
what  mournful  music  Death  would  bring  from  them.  '  We  grew 
quite  warlike  against  war,'  she  wrote,  '  and  I  urged  H.  to  write 
a  peace  poem.'  "  The  poem  was  written  some  months  later  and 
published  in  Graham's  Magazine,  April,  1844.  Mr.  Longfellow 
in  writing  of  it  to  Mr.  Sumner  notes :  "On  the  back  of  my  peace 
poem  is  a  paper  called  The  Battle-Grounds  of  America.  This  is 
the  reverse  of  the  medal." 

THIS  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
"When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's 
song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat   the  wild  war -drums   made  of   serpent's 
skin; 


196  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns  ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asun« 
der, 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade ; 
And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  j  arrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half   the  power,  that  fills  the   world  with 

terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and 

courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease  ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I    hear   once    more    the    voice    of    Christ  say, 
"Peace!" 


NUREMBERG  197 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


NUREMBERG. 

In  a  letter  to  Freiligrath,  written  in  the  spring  of  1844,  Mr. 
Longfellow  says :  "  Here  I  send  you  a  poem  on  Nuremberg.  .  .  . 
I  trust  I  have  not  mistranslated  wie  ein  Taub  Jermas.  It  cer- 
tainly stands  for  cine  Taube  or  ein  Tauber,  and  is  dove  and  not 
deaf,  though  old  Hans  Sachs  was  deaf.  But  that  Puschman 
describes  afterwards  when  he  says :  — 

Danii  sein  Red  und 
Gehdr  begunnt 
Ihm  abzugelm,  etc. 

Therefore  dove-like  it  is  and  shall  be,  for  F.  says,  '  I  would  have 
it  so  at  any  rate !  '  and  at  any  rate  I  will. "  In  an  earlier  let- 
ter to  Freiligrath,  printed  in  the  Life,  I.  417,  Mr.  Longfellow 
describes  with  enthusiasm  a  day  at  Nuremberg,  from  the  mem- 
ory of  which  this  poem  sprang. 

IN  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad 

meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg, 

the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town 

of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks 

that  round  them  throng : 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors, 

rough  and  bold, 
Had   their   dwelling  in    thy  castle,  time-defying, 

centuries  old ; 


198  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in 

their  uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand 

through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many 

an  iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen  Cuni- 

gunde's  hand ; 

On  the  square   the   oriel  window,  where   in   old 

heroic  days 
Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's 

praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around   me  rise  the  wondrous 

world  of  Art : 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing 

in  the  common  mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bishops 

carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our 

own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined 

his  holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age 

to  age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix  of 

sculpture  rare, 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through 

the  painted  air. 


NUREMBERG  199 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple, 

reverent  heart, 
Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evangelist 

of  Art ; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with 

busy  hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the 

Better  Land. 

Emigramt  is  the  inscription   on   the   tomb-stone 

where  he  lies ; 
Dead   he   is   not,  but  departed,  —  for  the   artist 

never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 

seems  more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once 

has  breathed  its  air ! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these 

obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting  rude 

poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came  they  to  the 

friendly  guild, 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in  spouts 

the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the 

mystic  rhyme, 
A.nd  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to  the 

anvil's  chime ; 


200  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes  the 

flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of  the 

loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the 

gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios 

sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a  nicely 

sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above 

the  door ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam  Pusch- 

man's  song, 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with  his  great 

beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to  drown 

his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master's 

antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before  my 

dreamy  eye 
Wave  these  mingled   shapes  and  figures,  like  a 

faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee 
the  world's  regard ; 

Line  12.  Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a  faded  tapestry. 


THE  NORMAN  BARON  201 

But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans  Sachs 
thy  cobbler  bard. 

Thus,  O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region  far 

away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in 

thought  his  careless  lay : 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  flow- 
eret of  the  soil, 

The  nobility  of  labor,  —  the  long  pedigree  of 
toil/ 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 

The  following  passage  from  Thierry  was  sent  to  Mr.  Longfel- 
low by  an  unknown  correspondent,  who  suggested  it  as  a  theme 
for  a  poem. 

Dans  les  moments  de  la  vie  ou  la  reflexion  devient  plus  calme 
et  plus  profonde,  ou  1'inte're't  et  1'avarice  parlent  moins  haut  que 
la  raison,  dans  les  instants  de  chagrin  domestique,  de  maladie,  et 
de  pe"ril  de  mort,  les  nobles  se  repentirent  de  posse'der  des  serfs, 
com  me  d'une  chose  peu  agre'able  a  Dieu,  qui  avait  cre^  tous  les 
homines  a  son  image.  —  THIEBBY,  Conquete  de  V  Angleterre. 

IN  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying, 
Was  the  Norman  baron  lying ; 
Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered, 
And  the  castle-turret  shook. 

In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer, 
Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 
And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 


202  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

By  his  bed  a  monk  was  seated, 
Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a  prayer  and  pater-noster, 

From  the  missal  on  his  knee ; 

And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 
Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing, 
Bells,  that  from  the  neighboring  kloster 
Rang  for  the  Nativity. 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail ; 

Many  a  carol,  old  and  saintly, 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits  ; 

And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen, 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chanted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy, 
Whispered  at  the  baron's  ear. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 
As  he  paused  awhile  and  listened, 
And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 

"Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a  manger  ! 
King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free  !  " 


THE  NORMAN  BARON  203 

And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted, 
And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 
"  Miserere,  Dornine !  " 

In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition 
He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 
Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 

All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 
Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion, 
And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner, 
Every  serf  born  to  his  manor, 
All  those  wronged  and  wretched  creatures, 
By  his  hand  were  freed  again. 

And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal, 
Death  relaxed  his  iron  features, 

And  the  monk  replied,  "  Amen !  " 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent's  sculptured  portal, 

Mingling  with  the  common  dust : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages, 
Brighter  grows  and  gleams  immortal, 
Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust. 


204  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

Published  in  Grahams  Magazine,  August,  1845. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  I 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 

Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER  205 

And  commotion ; 
And  down  the  wet  streets 
Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 
Till  the  treacherous  pool 
Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 
And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soiL 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 


206  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  ; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 
With  vision  clear, 


TO  A    CHILD  207 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

This  poem  was  begun  October  2,  1845,  and  on  the  13th  of  the 
next  month  Mr.  Longfellow  noted  in  his  diary  :  "  Walked  in  the 
garden  and  tried  to  finish  the  Ode  to  a  Child ;  but  could  not 
find  the  exact  expressions  I  wanted,  to  round  and  complete  the 
whole."  After  the  publication  of  the  volume  containing  it,  he 
wrote  :  "  The  poem  To  a  Child  and  The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs 
seem  to  be  the  favorites.  This  is  the  best  answer  to  my  assail- 
ants. ' '  Possibly  the  charge  was  made  then  as  frequently  afterward 
that  his  poetry  was  an  echo  of  foreign  scenes.  It  is  at  any  rate  no- 
ticeable that  in  this  poem  he  first  strongly  expressed  that  domestic 
sentiment  which  was  to  be  so  conspicuous  in  his  after  work.  It 
will  be  remembered  that  he  was  married  to  Miss  Appleton  in  July, 
1843,  and  his  second  child  was  born  at  the  time  when  he  was 
writing  this  ode.  Five  years  later  he  made  the  following  entry 
in  his  diary:  "Some  years  ago,  writing  an  Ode  to  a  Child,  I 

spoke  of 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  miser,  Time. 

What  was  my  astonishment  to-day,  in  reading  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  Wordsworth's  beautiful  ode  On  the  Power  of  Sound,  to 

read 

All  treasures  hoarded  by  the  miser  Time." 

DEAR  child  !  how  radiant  on  thy  mother's  knee, 
With  merry-making  eyes  and  jocund  smiles, 


208  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Thou  gazest  at  the  painted  tiles, 
Whose  figures  grace, 
With  many  a  grotesque  form  and  face, 
The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery  ! 
The  lady  with  the  gay  macaw, 
The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 
With  bearded  lip  and  chin ; 
And,  leaning  idly  o'er  his  gate, 
Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 
The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a  look  of  proud  command 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  little  hand 

The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells, 

Making  a  merry  tune ! 

Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 

That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees, 

Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 

Dashed  it  on  Coromandel's  sand ! 

Those  silver  bells 

Reposed  of  yore, 

As  shapeless  ore, 

Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 

Of  darksome  mines, 

In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place, 

Beneath  huge  Chimborazo's  base, 

Or  Potosfs  o'erhanging  pines ! 

And  thus  for  thee,  O  little  child, 

Through  many  a  danger  and  escape, 

The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape  ; 

For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote, 

Beneath  a  burning,  tropic  clime, 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild  goat, 


TO  A    CHILD  209 

Himself  as  swift  and  wild, 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute, 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root, 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 

The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid, 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  miser,  Time. 

But,  lo !  thy  door  is  left  ajar ! 

Thou  hearest  footsteps  from  afar  ! 

And,  at  the  sound, 

Thou  turnest  round 

With  quick  and  questioning  eyes, 

Like  one,  who,  in  a  foreign  land, 

Beholds  on  every  hand 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise  ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently, 

Thou  strivest,  strugglest,  to  be  free. 

The  four  walls  of  thy  nursery 

Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

No  more  thy  mother's  smiles, 

No  more  the  painted  tiles, 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the  floor, 

That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before  ; 

Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 
Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 
The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice 
Makes  the  old  walls 
Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 
With  the  joy  of  thy  young  heart, 
O'er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 


210  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

No  shadows  of  sadness 

From  the  sombre  background  of  memory  start 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 
One  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 
And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a  burning  belt. 
Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs, 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares, 
Sounded  his  majestic  tread  ; 
Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom, 
Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 

But  what  are  these  grave  thoughts  to  thee  ? 

Out,  out !  into  the  open  air  ! 

Thy  only  dream  is  liberty, 

Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 

I  see  thee  eager  at  thy  play, 

Now  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree, 

With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they ; 

And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks, 

Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants, 

As  restless  as  the  bee. 

Along  the  garden  walks, 

The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage- wheels  I  trace; 

And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 

Whole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 

Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 

Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants. 


TO  A    CHILD  211 

Ah,  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 

Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 

Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 

These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm ! 

What !  tired  already  !    with  those  suppliant  looks, 

And  voice  more  beautiful  than  a  poet's  books 

Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 

Thou  comest  back  to  parley  with  repose  ! 

This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 

With  its  o'erhanging  golden  canopy 

Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues, 

And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of  dews, 

Shall  for  a  season  be  our  place  of  rest. 

Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole's  pendent  nest, 

From  which  the  laughing  birds  have  taken  wing, 

By  thee  abandoned,  hangs  thy  vacant  swing. 

Dream-like  the  waters  of  the  river  gleam ; 

A  sailless  vessel  drops  adown  the  stream, 

And  like  it,  to  a  sea  as  wide  and  deep, 

Thou  driftest  gently  down  the  tides  of  sleep. 

0  child  !     O  new-born  denizen 
Of  life's  great  city  !  on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 
Like  a  celestial  benison ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 
And  with  thy  little  hand 
Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 
Into  the  future's  undiscovered  land. 

1  see  its  valves  expand, 
As  at  the  touch  of  Fate ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate, 


212  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I  launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 

Freighted  with  hope  and  fear  ; 

As  upon  subterranean  streams, 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark, 

Men  sometimes  launch  a  fragile  bark, 

Laden  with  nickering  fire, 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams, 

Until  at  length  they  disappear, 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 

Dare  I  to  cast  thy  horoscope ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears ; 

A  little  strip  of  silver  light, 

And  widening  outward  into  night 

The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years  ; 

And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A  luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim, 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here, 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere 

A  prophecy  and  intimation, 

A  pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 

Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 

Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah  !  if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught, 
Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 
With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toil,  — > 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 
Until  the  overburdened  brain, 
Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain, 


TO  A    CHILD  213 

Like  a  jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power,  — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour, 
When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed, 
From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a  more  auspicious  fate 

On  thy  advancing  steps  await, 

Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 

To  linger  by  the  laborer's  side  ; 

With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 

To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 

O'er  desert  sand,  o'er  dangerous  moor. 

Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 

Without  reward  ;  for  thou  shalt  learn 

The  wisdom  early  to  discern 

True  beauty  in  utility ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore, 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith's  door, 

And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 

The  anvils  with  a  different  note, 

Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 

Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue, 

The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 

And  formed  the  seven-chorded  lyre. 

Enough !  I  will  not  play  the  Seer  ; 
I  will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hope,  forerunning  Fear, 
And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope. 
Thy  destiny  remains  untold ; 


214  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

For,  like  Acestes'  shaft  of  old, 
The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies, 
And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 

"October  9,  1845.  Made  a  dash  at  The  Occultation  of  Orion, 
which  I  think  mil  turn  out  good.  I  have  had  several  poetic 
mornings  of  late  ;  and  hope  soon  to  have  my  volume  ready. 

"October  11.  Bad  day  for  work.  No  glow  or  enthusiasm. 
Tried  Orion,  but  with  small  success.  Hoped  to  have  finished  it, 
but  gave  up  in  despair. 

"October  14.  Finished  The  Occultation  of  Orion,  and  read  it 
to  F.  and  E.  before  the  ink  was  dry.  The  concluding  lines,  how- 
ever, dropped  into  my  brain  in  the  evening,  as  I  was  coming  down 
from  my  dressing-room."  Elsewhere,  Mr.  Longfellow  says :  "As- 
tronomically speaking,  this  title  is  incorrect ;  as  I  apply  to  a  con- 
stellation what  can  properly  be  applied  to  some  of  its  stars  only. 
But  my  observation  is  made  from  the  hill  of  song,  and  not  from 
that  of  science  ;  and  will,  I  trust,  be  found  sufficiently  accurate 
for  the  present  purpose."  Published  in  Graham,  November,  1845. 

I  SAW,  as  in  a  dream  sublime, 
The  balance  in  the  hand  of  Time. 
O'er  East  and  West  its  beam  impended  ; 
And  Day,  with  all  its  hours  of  light, 
Was  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight, 
While,  opposite,  the  scale  of  Night 
Silently  with  the  stars  ascended. 

Like  the  astrologers  of  eld, 
In  that  bright  vision  I  beheld 
Greater  and  deeper  mysteries. 
I  saw,  with  its  celestial  keys, 
Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  fire, 
The  Saiman's  great  .ZEolian  lyre, 


THE  OCCULTAT10N  OF  ORION        215 

Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars, 

From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 

And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere, 

Not  only  could  I  see,  but  hear, 

Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings, 

In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  by  sphere, 

From  Dian's  circle  light  and  near, 

Onward  to  vaster  and  wider  rings, 

Where,  chanting  through  his  beard  of  snows, 

Majestic,  mournful,  Saturn  goes, 

And  down  the  sunless  realms  of  space 

Reverberates  the  thunder  of  his  bass. 

Beneath  the  sky's  triumphal  arch 
This  music  sounded  like  a  march, 
And  with  its  chorus  seemed  to  be 
Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 
Sirius  was  rising  in  the  east ; 
And,  slow  ascending  one  by  one, 
The  kindling  constellations  shone. 
Begirt  with  many  a  blazing  star, 
Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 
Orion,  hunter  of  the  beast ! 
His  sword  hung  gleaming  by  his  side, 
And,  on  his  arm,  the  lion's  hide 
Scattered  across  the  midnight  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  its  hair. 

The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint; 
And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 
Serenely  moving  on  her  way 
In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 
As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 


216  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 
Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 
As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars, 
That  were  to  prove  her  strength  and  try 
Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 

Thus  moving  on,  with  silent  pace, 
And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  face, 
She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 
Aghast  he  stood  in  strange  alarm ! 
And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 
Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 
Into  the  river  at  his  feet. 
His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 
The  forehead  of  the  bull ;  but  he 
Eeeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea, 
When,  blinded  by  CEnopion, 
He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge, 
And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge, 
Fixed  his  blank  eyes  upon  the  sun. 

Then,  through  the  silence  overhead, 
An  angel  with  a  trumpet  said, 

"  Forevermore,  f orevermore, 
The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  !  " 
And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 
Its  music  on  another's  strings, 
The  trumpet  of  the  angel  cast 
Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast, 
And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  words 
Reechoed  down  the  burning  chords,  — 

"  Forevermore,  f  orevermore, 
The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er ! " 


THE  BRIDGE  217 


THE  BRIDGE. 

Finished  October  9,  1845,  and  at  first  localized  as  The  Bridge 
tver  the  Charles,  the  river  which  separates  Cambridge  from  Boston. 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 


218  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 
Of  care-encumbered  men, 

Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 
Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow ! 


TO    THE  DRIVING  CLOUD  219 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 

"  October  17,  1845.  Retouched  The  Bridge  and  the  lines  To  the 
Driving  Cloud  in  hexameters,  — better  than  the  translation  from 
Tegne'r"  —  The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper. 

GLOOMY  and  dark  art  thou,  O  chief  of  the  mighty 

Omahas ; 
Gloomy  and  dark  as  the  driving  cloud,  whose  name 

thou  hast  taken ! 
Wrapped  in  thy  scarlet  blanket,  I  see  thee  stalk 

through  the  city's 
Narrow  and  popidous  streets,  as  once  by  the  margin 

of  rivers 
Stalked  those  birds  unknown,  that  have   left   us 

only  their  footprints. 
What,  in  a  few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy  race 

but  the  footprints  ? 

How  canst  thou  walk  these  streets,  who  hast  trod 

the  green  turf  of  the  prairies  ? 
How  canst  thou  breathe  this  air,  who  hast  breathed 

the  sweet  air  of  the  mountains  ? 


220      THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Ah !  't  is  in  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of  disdain 

thou  dost  challenge 
Looks  of  disdain   in  return,  and  question   these 

walls  and  these  pavements, 
Claiming  the  soil  for  thy  hunting-grounds,  while 

down-trodden  millions 
Starve  in  the  garrets  of  Europe,  and  cry  from  its 

caverns  that  they,  too, 
Have  been  created  heirs  of  the  earth,  and  claim  its 

division  I 

Back,  then,  back  to  thy  woods  in  the  regions  west 

of  the  Wabash ! 
There  as  a  monarch  thou  reignest.     In  autumn  the 

leaves  of  the  maple 
Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with  gold,  and 

in  summer 
Pine-trees  waft  through  its  chambers  the  odorous 

breath  of  their  branches. 
There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a  hero,  a  tamer 

of  horses ! 
There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  on  the  banks  of 

the  Elkhorn, 
Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running- Water,  or  where 

the  Omaha 
Calls  thee,  and  leaps  through  the  wild  ravine  like 

a  brave  of  the  Blackfeet ! 

Hark  !  what  murmurs  arise  from  the  heart  of  those 

mountainous  deserts  ? 
Is  it  the  cry  of  the  Foxes  and  Crows,  or  the  mighty 

Behemoth, 
Who,  unharmed,   on  his  tusks  once   caught   the 

bolts  of  the  thunder, 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE.  221 

And  now  lurks  in  his  lair  to  destroy  the  race  of 

the  red  man  ?  i 

Far  more   fatal   to   thee   and! thy  race  than  the 

Crows  and  the  Foxes,   j 
Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  tread 

of  Behemoth, 
Lo !  the   big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily  breasts 

the  Missouri's 
Merciless  current !  and  yonder,  afar  on  the  prairies, 

the  camp-fires 
Gleam  through  the  night ;  and  the  cloud  of  dust  in 

the  gray  of  the  daybreak 
Marks  not  the  buffalo's  track,  nor  the  Mandan's 

dexterous  horse-race ; 
It  is  a  caravan,  whitening  the  desert  where  dwell 

the  Camanches ! 
Ha !  how  the  breath  of  these  Saxons  and  Celts, 

like  the  blast  of  the  east-wind, 
Drifts  evermore  to  the  west  the  scanty  smokes  of 

thy  wigwams  I 


SONGS 

THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

Written  in  the  fall  of  1844  as  proem  to  The  Waif,  a  small 
relume  of  poems  selected  by  Mr.  Longfellow  and  published  at 
Christmas  of  that  year. 

THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 


222  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  .soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Eead  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY  223 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 

Published  in  Graham's  Magazine,  September,  1845. 

THE  day  is  ending, 
The  night  is  descending  ; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 
The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences ; 
The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o'er  the  plain ; 


224  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 
Slowly  passes 
A  funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 
My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG  BOOK. 

"October  6,  1845.  F.'s  birthday.  I  ought  to  have  written  a 
poem  for  the  occasion.  Instead  of  doing  so,  I  wrote  the  song 
without  rhyme,  To  an  Old  Danish  Song  Book. 

"October?.  Retouched  and  finished  the  song  of  yesterday. 
What  is  said  of  the  Scald  refers,  of  course,  only  to  some  of  the 
melodies,  which  may  possibly  be  as  old  as  the  days  of  Hakon 
Jarl,  or  older.  Hamlet  and  Yorick  are  only  symbolical  of  any 
old  king  and  his  jester." 

A  couple  of  years  later,  Mr.  Longfellow  was  reading  Ander- 
sen's Story  of  my  Life,  and  he  notes  :  "Autumn  always  brings 
back  very  freshly  my  autumnal  sojourn  in  Copenhagen,  delight- 
fully mingled  with  bracing  air  and  yellow  falling  leaves.  I  have 
tried  to  record  the  impression  in  the  song  To  an  Old  Danish  Song 
Book." 

WELCOME,  my  old  friend, 
Welcome  to  a  foreign  fireside, 
While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG  BOOK      225 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seeins,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I  met  thee. 

There  are  marks  of  age, 
There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin, 
Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  alehouse. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art ; 
Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages, 
As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 
As  the  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 

Yet  dost  thou  recall 
Days  departed,  half-forgotten, 
When  in  dreamy  youth  I  wandered 
By  the  Baltic,  — 

When  I  paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 

Thou  recallest  bards, 
Who,  in  solitary  chambers, 
And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted, 
Wrote  thy  pages. 


226  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friendship 
Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald, 
In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 
Chanted  staves  of  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 

Once  in  Elsinore, 
At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 
Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 

Once  Prince  Frederick's  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks  ;  — 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus ! 

Peasants  in  the  field, 
Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics, 
All  have  sung  them. 

Thou  hast  been  their  friend  ; 
They,  alas  !  have  left  thee  friendless  ! 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys, 
So  thy  twittering  song  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosom,  — 


WALTER   VON  DER    VOGELWEID       227 

Quiet,  close,  and  warm, 
Sheltered  from  all  molestation, 
And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID. 

VOGELWEID  the  Minnesinger, 
When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 

Under  Wiirtzburg's  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 

Saying,  "  From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I  have  learned  the  art  of  song ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 

They  have  taught  so  well  and  long." 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 
On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 

By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o'er  tower  and  turret, 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 
Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers, 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 
Overshadowed  all  the  place, 


228  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 
On  the  poet's  sculptured  face, 

On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 
They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 

Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 
Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side  ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  "  Why  this  waste  of  food  ? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood." 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 

Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister's  funeral  stones, 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet's  bones. 


DRINKING  SONG  229 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 

By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 
Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 

And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 


DRINKING  SONG. 

INSCRIPTION   FOB   AN  ANTIQUE   PITCHER. 

COME,  old  friend !  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

From  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 

Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken, 
Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs  ; 

On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 
Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 

Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow  ; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 
As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses, 

Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante's 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations, 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations, 

Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor, 


230  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Judged  by  no  o'erzealous  rigor, 

Mijch  this  mystic  throng  expresses : 

Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigor, 
And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels, 
Of  a  faith  long  since  forsaken  ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o'ertaken. 

Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers  ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains,  — 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 

And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish, 

From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  Redi,  though  he  chaunted 
Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 

Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 
In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 

Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 

Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables  ; 

Ne'er  Falernian  threw  a  richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus'  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 
How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE   STAIRS     231 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE   STAIRS. 

The  house  commemorated  in  the  poem  is  the  Gold  house,  now 
known  as  the  Plunkett  mansion,  in  Pittsfield,  Massachusetts,  the 
homestead  of  Mrs.  Longfellow's  maternal  grandfather,  whither 
Mr.  Longfellow  went  after  his  marriage  in  the  summer  of  1843. 
The  poem  was  not  written,  however,  till  November,  1845,  when, 
under  date  of  the  12th  of  the  month,  he  wrote  in  his  diary: 
"  Began  a  poem  on  a  clock,  with  the  words  'Forever,  never,'  as 
the  burden ;  suggested  by  the  words  of  Bridaine,  the  old  French 
missionary,  who  said  of  eternity,  West  une  pendule  dont  le  balancier 
dit  et  redit  sans  cesse  ces  deux  mots  settlement  dans  le  silence  des 
tombeaux,  — Toujours,  jamais  !  Jamais,  toujours  !  Et  pendant  ces 
effrayables  revolutions,  un  re'prouve  s1  eerie,  '  Quelle  heure  est-il  ?  ' 
et  la  voix  d'un  autre  miserable  lui  re'pond,  '  L?  Eternite".'  " 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw ; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 


232  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  — forever  !  " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed  ; 
O  precious  hours !     O  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  1 
Never  —  forever !  " 


THE   OLD   CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS         233 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?  " 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 

"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever ! " 


234  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

"October  16,  1845.  Before  church,  -wrote  The  Arrow  and 
the  Song,  which  came  into  my  mind  as  I  stood  with  my  back  to 
the  fire,  and  glanced  on  to  the  paper  with  arrow's  speed.  Liter- 
ally an  improvisation." 

I  SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


SONNETS 

MEZZO  CAMMIN. 

Written  at  Boppard  on  the  Rhine,  August  25,  1842,  juat  be* 
fore  leaving  for  home. 

HALF  of  my  life  is  gone,  and  I  have  let 

The  years  slip  from  me  and  have  not  fulfilled 
The  aspiration  of  my  youth,  to  build 
Some  tower  of  song  with  lofty  parapet. 


THE  EVENING  STAR  235 

Not  indolence,  nor  pleasure,  nor  the  fret 

Of  restless  passions  that  would  not  be  stilled, 
But  sorrow,  and  a  care  that  almost  killed, 
Kept  me  from  what  I  may  accomplish  yet ; 

Though,  half-way  up  the  hill,  I  see  the  Past 

Lying  beneath  me  with  its  sounds  and  sights,  — 
A  city  in  the  twilight  dim  and  vast, 

With   smoking  roofs,    soft   bells,   and    gleaming 

lights,  — 

And  hear  above  me  on  the  autumnal  blast 
The  cataract  of  Death  far  thundering  from  the 
heights. 

THE  EVENING  STAR. 

"  October  30,  1845.  The  Indian  summer  still  in  its  glory. 
Wrote  the  sonnet  Hesperus  in  the  rustic  seat  of  the  old  apple- 
tree.  ' '  This  sonnet,  addressed  to  his  wife,  and  afterward  given 
its  present  title,  "  is  noticeable,"  says  his  biographer,  "  as  being 
the  only  love-poem  among  Mr.  Longfellow's  verses. ' ' 

Lo !  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 

Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines, 
Like  a  fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest ! 

And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines, 
With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love  oppressed. 

0  my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus ! 

My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love  ! 
My  best  and  gentlest  lady !  even  thus, 

As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 
Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 
And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the  light. 


236  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

AUTUMN. 

Written  November  11,  1845. 

THOU  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain, 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 
And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain  ! 

Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold ;  thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing   the   farms   through  all  thy  vast   do- 
main! 

Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
So  long  beneath  the  heaven's  o'erhanging  eaves ,; 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer's  prayers  attended ; 

Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves  ; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 
Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the   golden 
leaves ! 

DANTE. 

TUSCAN,  that  wanderest   through   the   realms  of 

gloom, 

With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic  eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arisej 
Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom ; 
Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 
The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume  ! 


CURFEW  237 

Methinks  I  see  thee  stand  with  pallid  cheeks 

By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 

As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 
The    ascending    sunbeams    mark    the    day's   de- 
crease ; 

And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 

Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers  "  Peace  !  " 


CURFEW. 

i. 

SOLEMNLY,  mournfully, 

Dealing  its  dole, 
The  Curfew  Bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 
And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence,  — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 
No  sound  in  the  hall ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Keign  over  all ! 


238  THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

II. 

The  book  is  completed, 
And  closed,  like  the  day ; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies ; 

Forgotten  they  lie ; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told, 
The  windows  are  darkened, 

The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 

Darker  and  darker 
The  black  shadows  fall 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

AFTER  the  publication  of  Evangeline,  there 
was  a  period  when  Mr.  Longfellow's  mood  was 
not  a  poetic  one.  He  pleased  himself  with  writ- 
ing the  tale  of  IZavanagh,  but  there  are  frequent 
laments  in  his  diary  at  his  unproductiveness  ;  that 
the  golden  days  of  October,  usually  so  fruitful  in 
verse,  faded  away  and  left  no  lines  written  ;  that 
his  growing  fame  brought  him  numberless  inter- 
ruptions, and  that  the  routine  of  his  college  work 
was  becoming  intolerable.  Now  and  then  a  poem 
came  to  him,  and  he  even  made  headway  with  a 
dramatic  romance  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.,  but 
abandoned  the  work  finally.  It  was  two  years 
after  finishing  Evangeline  before  he  had  accumu- 
lated sufficient  material  to  warrant  him  in  planning 
a  new  volume  of  poems.  He  wrote  in  his  diary 
April  30, 1849  :  - 

The  last  day  of  April ;  and  such  an  April,  and  such 
a  last  day  !  Cold  as  Greenland,  with  an  east  wind  that 
ploughs  and  harrows  one  through  and  through,  and  sows 
coughs  and  catarrhs  and  rheumatisms  among  much  suf- 
fering mortals.  Put  into  the  printer's  hands  the  first 
part  of  By  the  Fireside  and  By  the  Seaside,  a  volume 
of  poems  for  the  next  autumn.  I  have  learned  that 
types,  as  well  as  time,  must  be  taken  by  the  forelock. 


240      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

From  this  it  is  probable  that  in  the  absence  of 
any  long  poem  he  purposed  collecting  his  recent 
verse  into  two  general  divisions  and  placing  at  the 
front  of  the  volume  the  group  containing  the  larger 
number  of  poems,  for  he  had  then  only  half  a  dozen 
or  so  which  bore  special  relation  to  the  sea.  Four 
days  later  he  mourned  again  over  his  dulness. 
"  No  new  thing  to  start  the  stagnant  current.  Oh 
for  '  some  great  idea  to  refresh  me ' !  I  am  pon- 
dering on  a  continuation  of  Hyperion"  But  in  a 
few  weeks  he  seems  to  have  conceived  the  plan  of 
The  Building  of  the  Ship,  which  he  began  June 
18,  1849.  Work  upon  it,  however,  was  interrupted 
by  the  illness  and  death  of  his  father,  which  took 
him  to  Portland  and  detained  him  there,  but  not 
unlikely  his  stay  in  the  city  by  the  sea  gave  him 
opportunity  for  brooding  over  the  poem.  It  may 
5  be  added  that  besides  his  early  association  with  the 
seaboard,  his  summers  were  now  spent  at  Nahant. 
"  I  prefer  the  sea-side  to  the  country,"  he  once 
said  ;  "  the  idea  of  liberty  is  stronger  there."  At 
any  rate,  in  September  he  was  again  engaged  upon 
the  poem,  and  on  the  20th  noted :  "  The  Build- 
ing of  the  Ship  goes  on.  It  will  be  rather  long. 
Will  it  be  good?"  On  the  22d  he  finished  the 
poem,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  November  The 
Seaside  and  the  Fireside  was  published,  with  The 
Building  of  the  Ship  as  the  leading  piece. 

The  form  of  the  poem  was  clearly  suggested  by 
Schiller's  Song  of  the  Bell,  which  has  more  than 
once  served  as  a  model  to  poets.  Schiller  may  be 
said  to  have  introduced  a  new  artistic  form,  and 
Mr.  Longfellow,  in  adopting  the  general  scheme, 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  241 

showed  his  apprehension  of  its  capacity  by  the  skill 
with  which  he  moved  from  one  passage  to  another, 
using  the  short  lines  to  express  the  quicker,  more 
sudden,  or  hurried  action,  the  longer  to  indicate 
lingering,  moderate  action  or  reflection.  The  ora- 
torical character  of  the  poem,  so  to  speak,  has  al- 
ways caught  the  ear,  and  it  is  interesting  to  read  in 
the  poet's  diary  shortly  after  the  publication  of  the 
book,  this  entry  :  — 

February  12,  1850.  In  the  evening  Mrs.  Kemble 
read  before  the  Mercantile  Library  Association,  to  an 
audience  of  more  than  three  thousand,  portions  of  As  You 
Like  It ;  then  The  Building  of  the  Ship,  standing  out 
upon  the  platform,  book  in  hand,  trembling,  palpitating 
and  weeping,  and  giving  every  word  its  true  weight  and 
emphasis.  She  prefaced  the  recital  by  a  few  words,  to 
this  effect ;  that  when  she  first  saw  the  poem,  she  de- 
sired to  read  it  before  a  Boston  audience  ;  and  she  hoped 
she  would  be  able  to  make  every  word  audible  to  that 
great  multitude. 

By  this  graceful  action  Mrs.  Kemble  may  well 
have  thrown  into  concrete  form  the  lines  with 
which  Mr.  Longfellow  closed  the  sonnet  commem- 
orating her  readings, 

O  happy  Poet !  .  .  . 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 

To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice  ! 

But  it  is  to  be  suspected  that  the  vast  multitude 
was  stirred  to  its  depths  not  so  much  by  the  artis- 
tic completeness  of  the  rendition,  as  by  the  impas- 
sioned burst  with  which  the  poem  closes,  and  which 
fell  upon  no  listless  ears  in  the  deep  agitation 
of  the  eventful  year  1850.  Mr.  Noah  Brooks  in 


242      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

his  paper  on  Lincoln's  Imagination  {Scribner's 
Monthly,  August,  1879)  mentions  that  he  found 
the  President  one  day  attracted  by  these  stanzas, 
quoted  in  a  political  speech.  "  Knowing  the  whole 
poem,"  he  adds,  "  as  one  of  my  early  exercises  in 
recitation,  I  began,  at  his  request,  with  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  launch  of  the  ship,  and  repeated  it  to 
the  end.  As  he  listened  to  the  last  lines,  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  his  cheeks  were  wet.  He  did 
not  speak  for  some  minutes,  but  finally  said,  with 
simplicity :  '  It  is  a  wonderful  gift  to  be  able  to 
stir  men  like  that.' '  Dr.  William  Everett,  in 
his  remarks  before  the  Massachusetts  Histori- 
cal Society,  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Longfellow, 
called  attention  to  the  striking  contrast  in  these 
spirited,  hopeful  lines  to  Horace's  timid,  tremulous 
O  navis. 

In  his  diary,  under  date  of  March  23,  1850,  Mr. 
Longfellow  writes :  "  Cast  lead  flat-irons  for  the 
children,  to  their  great  delight.  C.  in  great  and 
joyous  excitement,  which  he  showed  by  the  most 
voluble  speech.  E.  showed  his  only  in  his  eyes, 
and  looked  on  in  silence.  The  casting  was  to  them 
as  grand  as  the  casting  of  a  bell  to  grown-up  chil- 
dren. Why  not  write  for  them  a  Song  of  the 
Lead  Plat-Iron  ?  " 

The  foot-note  readings  are  those  of  the  first  edi- 
tion of  The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside. 


THE    SEASIDE    AND    THE   FIRESIDE 

DEDICATION. 

As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 

And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they  come, 
Pauses    from    time    to    time,   and   turns    and 
hearkens ; 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O  my  friends ! 

I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance, 
And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 

His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  assistance. 

If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 
Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a  thousand-fold, 
By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  .shown ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token, 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 

Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word  be 
spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart's  deep  history, 
In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand,  — 

One  touch  of  fire,  —  and  all  the  rest  is  mystery ! 


244      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 

And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces ! 

Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold, 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and  sem- 
blance ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 

But  live  forever  young  in  my  remembrance  ! 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away ! 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever, 
When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay, 

As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a  river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends, 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  na- 
tions, 

But  the  endeavor  for  the  selfsame  ends, 

With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion  ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  your   warm  fireside,  when   the   lamps   are 
lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest, 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited  ! 


BY   THE   SEASIDE 
THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 

"  BUILD  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master ! 

Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 

Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 

He  answered,  "  Erelong  we  will  launch 

A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  stanch, 

As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea !  " 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 

Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 

A  little  model  the  Master  wrought, 

Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 

What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 

Its  counterpart  in  miniature  ; 

That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 

The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 


246      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o'er 

The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 

And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 

Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall, 

Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 

With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 

And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 

And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 

And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 

From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 

"Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 

And  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  Our  ship,  I  wis, 

Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  !  " 

It  was  of  another  form,  indeed ; 

Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 

A  beautiful  and  gallant  craft ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the  blast, 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 

Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 

With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 

That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 

And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 

Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 

Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 
With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 
That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 
And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle ! 
Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 
Lay  the  timber  piled  around ; 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP         247 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees ; 

Brought  from  regions  far  away, 

From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay, 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke ! 

Ah !  what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 

One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion ! 

There  's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 

But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea, 
And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 
As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 
Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 
Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 
That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 
Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 
Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 
Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 
A  youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 
Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 
Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 
Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 
Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 
The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  I 
The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 
Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 
Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again ;  — 


248      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 

The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's  hand, 

When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 

What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

"  Thus,"  said  he,  "  will  we  build  this  ship ! 
Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 
And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 
Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care ; 
Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware ; 
For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 
To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 
Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 
Here  together  shall  combine. 
A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 
And  the  UNION  be  her  name  ! 
For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 
Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  !  " 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 

With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 

Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach ; 

But  he 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP         249 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea ! 
Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  command  ! 
It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 
Far  excelleth  all  the  rest ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 

Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard's  bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 

Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 

With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side ; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

The  keel  of  oak  for  a  noble  ship, 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 

Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 

The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 

Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun, 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 
The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 
Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still, 
And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 
Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 
The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 
Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 
Of  pirates  coasting  the  Spanish  Main, 


250      THE   SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 

The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind, 

And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 

With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 

Where  the  tumbling  surf, 

O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 

Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 

As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 

And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 

At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 

With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 

That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  ! 

And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a  gleam 

From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile  illume 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a  dream  ; 

And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark 

What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 

That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 

Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's  breast ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 
With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 
Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 
Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 
A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view ! 
And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 
The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 
Till  after  many  a  week,  at  length, 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP          251 

Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 

Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreathing, 

Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 

Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheathing. 

And  amid  the  clamors 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  :  — 

u  Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master, 

Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 

Over  the  movement  of  the  whole ; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land, 

And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  blast ! 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 

By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 

Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 

Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 


252      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

But  modelled  from  the  Master's  daughter  ! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night, 

'T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal  light, 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 

By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright ! 

Behold,  at  last, 
Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place  ; 
Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 

When  upon  mountain  and  plain 

Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell,  —  those  lordly  pines  1 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines ! 

'Mid  shouts  and  cheers 

The  jaded  steers, 

Panting  beneath  the  goad, 

Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 

Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 

To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 

And  naked  and  bare, 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 

Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 

Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  forevermore 

Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see  again. 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP          253 

And  everywhere 

The  slender,  graceful  spars 

Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  at  the  mast-head, 

White,  blue,  and  red, 

A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Ah !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 

In  foreign  harbors  shall  behold 

That  flag  unrolled, 

'T  will  be  as  a  friendly  hand 

Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 

Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and  endless  ! 

All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-dav  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o'er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 


254      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Eeady  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sunny  fleck, 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said, 

The  service  read, 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head  ; 

And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 

Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 

Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 

In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 

The  worthy  pastor  — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 

That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP         255 

He  knew  the  chart 

Of  the  sailor's  heart, 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 

All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 

With  such  resistless  undertow, 

And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 

The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 

Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he  :  — 

Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

Line  14.     Seeina  at  its  outer  rim  to  rise 


256      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 
Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear !  " 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see !  she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,  —  she  moves,  —  she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 

And  lo !  from  the  assembled  crowd 
There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 
That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 
u  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 
Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 
With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  ! " 

How  beautiful  she  is !    How  fair 

She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 

Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer ! 

The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 


THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  SHIP         257 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State ! 

Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great ! 

Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 

What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat  ' 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 

'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale ! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee  I 


258      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 


SEAWEED. 

Originally  published  in  Graham's  Magazine,  January,  1845,  and 
then  in  the  collection  The  Belfry  of  Bruges  and  other  Poems,  but 
transferred  by  Mr.  Longfellow  to  this  division  in  his  latest  col- 
lective edition. 

WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks : 

From  Bermuda's  reefs ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 


SEA  WEED  259 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soiil,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 

From  the  strong  "Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 

Wrestle  with  the  tides  of  Fate ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


260      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 


CHRYSAOR. 

In  the  first  edition  of  The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside  this  poem 
bore  the  title  of  The  Evening  Star. 

JUST  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a  single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a  dusky  glimmer. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor, 

And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 
Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender. 

Chrysaor,  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous, 

Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 

Forever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o'er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly ; 

Is  it  a  God,  or  is  it  a  star 

That,  entranced,  I  gaze  on  nightly ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA. 

ATT  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea ! 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA  261 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sandal, 

Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore ; 
And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 

And  the  answer  from  the  shore ! 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 

Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 
Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 

And  the  sailor's  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  ou  a  sea-beach, 

Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 
With  a  soft,  monotonous  cadence, 

Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines  ;  — 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 

With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
Saw  a  fair  and  stately  galley, 

Steering  onward  to  the  land ;  — 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 

Chant  a  song  so  wild  and  clear, 
That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 

Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong,  — 
"  Helmsman  !  for  the  love  of  heaven, 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song !  " 

"  Woulclst  thou,"  —  so  the  helmsman  answered, 
"  Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 

line  16.     Onward  steering  to  the  land ;  — 


262      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery  !  " 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 
In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 

I  behold  that  stately  galley, 

Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 

For  the  secret  of  the  sea, 
And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 

Sends  a  thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


TWILIGHT. 

THE  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness 

To  see  some  form  arise. 


And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 
Is  passing  to  and  fro, 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT  263 

Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
TeU  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 

In  December,  1839,  when  Mr.  Longfellow  read  of  the  storm 
and  wrecks  near  Norman's  Woe,  he  thought  not  only  of  The 
Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  but  also  of  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert.  It 
does  not  appear  just  when  he  wrote  the  poem,  but  he  notes  in 
his  diary,  May  16,  1848 :  "  Copy,  for  Graham,  Sir  Humphrey 
Gilbert.'1 

SOUTHWARD  with  fleet  of  ice 

Sailed  the  corsair  Death ; 
Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glisten  in  the  sun  ; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

Line  16.     Glistened  in  the  sun. 


264      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 
But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 

Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas  !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 

And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 

Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 
'*  Do  not  fear !  Heaven  is  as  near," 
He  said,  "  by  water  as  by  land  !  " 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold  1 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE  265 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock ; 
Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 
With  mist  and  rain,  o'er  the  open  main  ; 

Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  forever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf-Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

Finished  November  7,  1849. 

THE  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 
And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away, 

The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I  can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 

A  speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  !  how  bright, 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air, 

Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  the  glare ! 

Line  5.    With  mist  and  rain,  to  the  Spanish  main ; 


266      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

Not  one  alone  ;  from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  verge, 

Starts  into  life  a  dim,  gigantic  shape, 

Holding  its  lantern  o'er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave, 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands, 
The  night-o'ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending  and  bowing  o'er  the  billowy  swells, 

And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 

They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  farewells. 

They  come   forth  from  the  darkness,  and   their 
sails 

Gleam  for  a  moment  only  in  the  blaze, 
And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a  child, 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and  sink ; 

And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild, 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o'er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 

Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night 

Burns  on  forevermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light  1 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of  peace ; 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD  267 

It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 
And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a  fleece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ;  the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries, 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within, 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  and  dies. 

A  new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock, 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 

"  Sail  on !  "  it  says,  "  sail  on,  ye  stately  ships ! 

And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean  span ; 
Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 

Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man !  " 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEREUX  FARM,  NEAR  MARBLEHEAD. 

"September  29,  1846.  A  delicious  drive  with  F.  through 
Maiden  and  Lynn  to  Marblehead,  to  visit  E.  W.  at  the  Devereux 
Farm  by  the  sea-side.  Drove  across  the  beautiful  sand.  What 
a  delicious  scene  !  The  ocean  in  the  sunshine  changing1  from  the 
silvery  hue  of  the  thin  waves  upon  the  beach,  through  the  lighter 
and  the  deeper  green,  to  a  rich  purple  in  the  horizon.  We  re- 
called the  times  past,  and  the  days  when  we  were  at  Nahant. 
The  Devereux  Farm  is  by  the  sea,  some  miles  from  Lynn.  An 


268      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

old-fashioned  farm-houso,  with  low  rooms,  and  narrow  windows 
rattling  in  the  sea-breeze."  From  this  visit  sprang  the  poem 
that  follows.  In  a  letter  in  1879  to  a  correspondent  who  had 
raised  a  matter-of-fact  objection,  Mr.  Longfellow  readily  ad- 
mitted that  the  harbor  and  light-house,  which  he  visited  the  same 
day,  could  not  be  seen  from  the  windows  of  the  farm-house. 

WE  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 

Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, 

The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort, 
The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 
When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD  269 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, 

The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, 
The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 

All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O  flames  that  glowed !     O  hearts  that  yearned ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 
The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE 

RESIGNATION. 

Written  in  the  autumn  of  1848,  after  the  death  of  his  little 
daughter  Fanny.  There  is  a  passage  in  the  poet's  diary,  under 
date  of  November  12th,  in  which  he  says :  "I  feel  very  sad  to- 
day. I  miss  very  much  my  dear  little  Fanny.  An  inappeasable 
longing  to  see  her  comes  over  me  at  times,  which  I  can  hardly 
control." 

THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted ! 

Let  us  be  patient !     These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors  ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 


RESIGNA  T1ON  271 

There  is  no  Death !     What  seems  so  is  transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace ; 
A-nd  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 


272      THE   SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


THE  BUILDERS. 

Finished  May  9,  1846. 

ALL  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 


SAND   OF  THE  DESERT  273 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 

With  a  firm  and  ample  base  ; 
And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 
And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


SAND  OF  THE   DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR- 
GLASS. 

A  HANDFUL  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 
Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 

The  minister  of  Thought 


274      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 

About  those  deserts  blown  ! 
How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen, 

How  many  histories  known  ! 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmaelite 

Trampled  and  passed  it  o'er, 
When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch's  sight 

His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare, 
Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread, 

Or  Pharaoh's  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 
Scattered  it  as  they  sped ; 

Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 

Held  close  in  her  caress, 
Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and  faith 

Illumed  the  wilderness ; 

Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi's  palms 

Pacing  the  Dead  Sea  beach, 
And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian  psalms 

In  half-articulate  speech ; 

Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora's  gate 

With  westward  steps  depart ; 
Or  Mecca's  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 

And  resolute  in  heart ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have  passed/ 
Now  in  this  crystal  tower 

Line  18.  Pacing  the  Red  Sea  beach, 


THE  OPEN   WINDOW  275 

Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 
It  counts  the  passing  hour. 

And  as  I  gaze,  these  narrow  walls  expand  ;  — 

Before  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting  sand, 

Its  unimpeded  sky. 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 

This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a  column  high  and  vast, 

A  form  of  fear  and  dread. 

And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 

Across  the  boundless  plain, 
The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run, 

Till  thought  pursues  in  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes  !     These  walls  again 

Shut  out  the  lurid  sun, 
Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain ; 

The  half-hour's  sand  is  run  I 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 

Published  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  November,  1849. 
The  old  house  by  the  lindens  is  what  is  known  as  the  Lechmere 
house  on  Brattle  Street,  corner  of  Sparks  Street,  in  Cambridge. 
It  has  been  altered  since  the  poem  was  written,  but  belongs  to 
a  group  of  houses,  of  which  Mr.  Longfellow's  was  one  and  Mr. 
Lowell's  another,  standing  on  what  was  sometimes  called  Tory 
Row,  since  these  houses,  built  before  the  war  for  independence, 
were  the  spacious  homes  of  rich  merchants  who  held  by  the  king. 
There  is  a  picture  of  the  Lechmere  house  from  a  pencil-sketch 
by  Mr.  Longfellow  in  Lossing's  Field-Book  of  the  Revolution,  I. 


276      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

557.  It  was  in  this  house  that  Baron  Riedesel  was  quartered  as 
prisoner  of  war  after  the  surrender  of  Burgoyne,  and  the  win- 
dow-pane is  shown  on  which  the  Baroness  wrote  her  name  with  a 
diamond. 


THE  old  house  by  the  lindens 

Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 

The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 

Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 
But  the  faces  of  the  children, 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door  ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 

I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand ! 


KING   WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN     277 


KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN. 

"  September  30,  1848.  Worked  upon  Kavanagh  all  the  morn- 
ing ;  and  wound  up  with  King  Witlafs  Drinking-Horn  which  I 
painted  with  a  sweep  of  the  pencil  just  before  dinner."  In  an- 
other entry  in  the  journal  is  the  source  from  which  the  legend 
was  derived:  "Here  is  the  part  of  King  Witlafs  charter  to  the 
Abbey  of  Croyland  relating  to  his  drinking-horn,  cited  in  Mait- 
land's  Dark  Ages  :  '  I  also  offer  to  the  refectory  .  .  .  the  horn 
of  my  table,  that  the  elders  of  the  monastery  may  drink  out  of  it 
on  the  festivals  of  the  saints ;  and  may  sometimes,  amid  their 
benedictions,  remember  the  soul  of  the  donor,  Wichtlaf.'  "  The 
text  is  found  in  Ingulph's  Chronicle  of  Croyland  in  Bohn's  Anti- 
quarian Library. 

WITLAF,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 

Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 
To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 

His  drinking-horn  bequeathed,  — 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels, 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 

And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 
In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 

Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 


278      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 

Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 
And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 

They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies ; 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 
From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

Guthlac  and  Bartholomseus, 
Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney, 
And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 

And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered, 
But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 
He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 

In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving, 
Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forbore, 
For  they  cried,  "  Fill  high  the  goblet  I 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  I  n 


CASPAR  BECERRA  279 


GASPAR  BECERRA. 

Written  January  30,  1849.  It  appears  to  have  been  suggested 
by  a  passage  in  Sterling's  Spanish  Painters,  which  Mr.  Longfel- 
low was  reading  at  the  time  with  great  pleasure.  He  had  some 
thought  of  writing  a  drama  based  on  Sterling's  account  of  Muril- 
lo's  life  in  Seville. 

BY  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame  ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

'T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 

But,  alas!  his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 

From  a  distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought ; 

Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 
And  the  day's  humiliation 

Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  "  Rise,  O  master ! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee  ! "  — 

And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — 


280      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood  ; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 
And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 

O  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 
That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 

"October  21,  1846.  I  am  anxious  to  get  out  The  Estray, 
as  a  companion  to  The  Waif,  and  cannot  get  to  the  level  of  writ- 
ing the  introductory  poem,  for  which  I  have  the  idea  in  my  mind, 
namely,  Pegasus  in  Pound.  For  years  I  have  not  had  so  un- 
poetic  an  autumn,  which  grieves  me  sore.  I  always  rely  upon 
the  autumn,  and  chiefly  on  October.  Last  year  how  many  poems 
I  wrote  ;  and  this  year,  as  yet,  not  one ! ' ' 

"November  9.  Work  in  college  all  day.  Voted  for  Palfrey, 
in  the  rain.  In  the  evening,  Faculty-meeting.  After  which  I 
sat  by  the  fire  in  my  deep  chair  and  wrote  [with  pencil]  the 
greater  part  of  Pegasus  in  Pound,  —  a  proem  to  the  collection  to 
be  entitled  The  Estray." 

The  Estray  was  published  in  1847.  When  making  up  The  Sea-- 
side and  the  Fireside,  Mr.  Longfellow  included  this  poem. 

ONCE  into  a  quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 
Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND  281 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim ; 

'T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 
Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 

That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  school-boys  he  was  found ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 

Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 
Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 

There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars ; 


282      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a  neighboring  farm-yard, 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryou  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof -marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


TEGNER'S   DRAPA. 

"October  14,  1847.  Went  to  town,  after  finishing  a  poem  on 
Tegn^r's  death,  in  the  spirit  of  the  old  Norse  poetry."  In  the 
first  edition,  the  poem  bore  the  title  Tegner's  Death.  The  word 
drapa  signifies  death-song,  or  dirge. 

I  HEARD  a  voice,  that  cried, 
"  Balder  the  Beautiful 

Line  16.    From  the  hoof-prints  in  the  sod. 


TBGN^R'S  DRAPA  283 

Is  dead,  is  dead !  " 
And  through  the  misty  air 
Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 
Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 

I  saw  the  pallid  corpse 

Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky. 

Blasts  from  Niffelheim 

Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 

Around  him  as  he  passed. 

And  the  voice  forever  cried, 
«*  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead !  " 
And  died  away 
Through  the  dreary  night, 
In  accents  of.  despair. 

Balder  the  Beautiful, 
God  of  the  summer  sun, 
Fairest  of  all  the  Gods  ! 
Light  from  his  forehead  beamed, 
Runes  were  upon  his  tongue, 
As  on  the  warrior's  sword. 

All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 
Even  the  plants  and  stones ; 
All  save  the  mistletoe, 
The  sacred  mistletoe  I 


284      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

Hoecler,  the  blind  old  God, 
Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence, 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud, 
Made  of  the  mistletoe, 
The  accursed  mistletoe ! 

They  laid  him  in  his  ship, 
With  horse  and  harness, 
As  on  a  funeral  pyre. 
Odin  placed 
A  ring  upon  his  finger, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear. 

They  launched  the  burning  ship ! 

It  floated  far  away 

Over  the  misty  sea, 

Till  like  the  sun  it  seemed, 

Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 

Balder  returned  no  more  ! 

So  perish  the  old  Gods  ! 

But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 

Rises  a  new  land  of  song, 

Fairer  than  the  old. 

Over  its  meadows  green 

Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 

Build  it  again, 

O  ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before ! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race, 

Line  1C.    Till  like  the  moon  it  seemed, 


SONNET  285 


Feed  upon  morning  dew, 
Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love  I 

The  law  of  force  is  dead  ! 
The  law  of  love  prevails ! 
Thor,  the  thunderer, 
Shall  rule  the  earth  no  more, 
No  more,  with  threats, 
Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 

Sing  no  more, 
O  ye  bards  of  the  North, 
Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls  ! 
Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only, 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood  ! 


SONNET 

ox  MBS.  KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FKOM  SHAKESPEARE. 

In  the  winter  of  1849  Mrs.  Fanny  Kenible  Butler  was  reading 
Shakespeare  in  Boston,  and  Mr.  Longfellow  was  a  constant  at- 
tendant. He  notes  in  his  diary  under  date  of  February  20 : 
"We  did  not  go  last  night  to  hear  Othello.  I  wrote  this  morn- 
ing a  sonnet  on  Mrs.  Butler's  readings."  A  week  later  the  poet 
entertained  Mrs.  Butler  after  a  reading  in  Cambridge,  and  read 
his  sonnet  at  the  close  of  the  supper. 

0  PRECIOUS  evenings  !  all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 
Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 
Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 
And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read, 
Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 


286      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 

Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said ! 
O  happy  Reader  !  having  for  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves  have 
caught 

The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought ! 
O  happy  Poet !  by  no  critic  vext ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 

To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice  ! 

THE   SINGERS. 

"  November  6, 1849.    Wrote  The  Singers  to  show  the  excellence 
of  different  kinds  of  song."     No  individual  poets  were  intended. 

GOD  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a  youth  with  soul  of  fire, 

Held  in  his  hand  a  golden  lyre ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams, 

Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 

The  second,  with  a  bearded  face, 
Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 
And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A  gray  old  man,  the  third  and  last, 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast, 
While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 


SUSP1RIA  287 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be ; 
For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  "  I  see 

No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree  ; 

I  gave  a  various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 

14  These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might, 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 


SUSPIRIA. 

TAKE  them,  O  Death  !  and  bear  away 
Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own ! 

Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone  ! 

Take  them,  O  Grave  !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves  1 

Take  them,  O  great  Eternity  ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust  I 


288      THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE 

HYMN 
FOE  MY  BROTHER'S  ORDINATION. 

The  brother  was  the  Rev.  Samuel  Longfellow,  the  poet's  biog- 
rapher. In  his  diary,  February  8,  1848,  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote : 
"  S.  returned  from  Portland.  Read  to  him  the  chant  I  wrote  for 
his  ordination,  —  a  midnight  thought.  He  likes  it,  and  will  have 
it  snug." 

CHRIST  to  the  young  man  said :  "  Yet  one  thing 
more; 

If  thou  wouldst  perfect  be, 
Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 

And  come  and  follow  me  !  " 

Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 

Those  sacred  words  hath  said, 
And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 

Laid  on  a  young  man's  head. 

And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 

The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 
That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 
"  Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  ?  " 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage  feast  shall  be, 

To  make  the  scene  more  fair  ; 
Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 

Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

O  holy  trust !  O  endless  sense  of  rest ! 

Like  the  beloved  John 
To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour's  breast, 

And  thus  to  journey  on  ! 


APPENDIX 


I.  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

WHEN  Mr.  Longfellow  made  his  first  collection  of  poems 
in  Voices  of  the  Night,  he  included  a  group  of  Earlier  Poems, 
but  printed  only  seven  out  of  a  number  which  bore  his  initials 
or  are  directly  traceable  to  him.  He  chose  these,  doubt- 
less, not  as  specimens  of  his  youthful  work,  but  because  of 
all  that  he  had  written  ten  years  or  more  before,  they  only 
appeared  to  him  to  have  poetic  qualities  which  he  could  re- 
gard with  any  complacency.  It  is  not  likely  that  any 
readers  will  be  found  to  contravene  his  judgment  in  the 
omission  of  the  other  verses,  but  since  this  edition  is  in- 
tended for  the  student  as  well  as  for  the  general  reader,  it 
has  been  thought  best  to  print  here  those  poetical  exer- 
cises which  curious  investigators  have  recovered  from  the 
obscurity  in  which  Mr.  Longfellow  was  entirely  willing  to 
leave  them.  They  are  printed  in  as  nearly  chronological 
order  as  may  be. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   LOVELL'S   POND. 

Mr.  Longfellow's  first  verses,  so  far  as  known,  printed  in 
the  Portland  Gazette,  November  17,  1820. 

Cold,  cold  is  the  north  wind  and  rude  is  the  blast 
That  sweeps  like  a  hurricane  loudly  and  fast, 
As  it  moans  through  the  tall  waving  pines  lone  and  drear, 
Sighs  a  requiem  sad  o'er  the  warrior's  bier. 

The  war-whoop  is  still,  and  the  savage's  yell 

Has  sunk  into  silence  along  the  wild  dell ; 

The  din  of  the  battle,  the  tumult,  is  o'er, 

And  the  war-clarion's  voice  is  now  heard  no  more. 


290  APPENDIX 

The  warriors  that  fought  for  their  country,  and  bled, 
Have  sunk  to  their  rest ;  the  damp  earth  is  their  bed ; 
No  stone  tells  the  place  where  their  ashes  repose, 
Nor  points  out  the  spot  from  the  graves  of  their  foes. 

They  died  in  their  glory,  surrounded  by  fame, 
And  Victory's  loud  trump  their  death  did  proclaim ; 
They  are  dead  ;  but  they  live  in  each  Patriot's  breast, 
And  their  names  are  engraven  on  honor's  bright  crest. 

HENBY. 


TO  IANTHE. 

Written  during  his  third  year  at  Bowdoin  College,  and 
printed  in  the  Portland  Advertiser,  August  28,  1824. 

When  upon  the  western  cloud 

Hang  day's  fading  roses, 
When  the  linnet  sings  aloud 

And  the  twilight  closes,  — 
As  I  mark  the  moss-grown  spring 

By  the  twisted  holly, 
Pensive  thoughts  of  thee  shall  bring 

Love's  own  melancholy. 

Lo,  the  crescent  moon  on  high 

Lights  the  half-choked  fountain  ; 
Wandering  winds  steal  sadly  by 

From  the  hazy  mountain. 
Tet  that  moon  shall  wax  and  wane, 

Summer  winds  pass  over,  — 
Ne'er  the  heart  shall  love  again 

Of  the  slighted  lover ! 

When  the  russet  autumn  brings 

Blighting  to  the  forest, 
Twisted  close  the  ivy  clings 

To  the  oak  that 's  hoarest ; 
So  the  love  of  other  days 

Cheers  the  broken-hearted ; 
But  if  once  our  love  decays 

'T  is  for  aye  departed. 

When  the  hoar-frost  nips  the  leaf 

Pale  and  sear  it  lingers, 
Wasted  in  its  beauty  brief 

By  decay's  cold  fingers ; 
Tet  unchanged  it  ne'er  again 

Shall  its  bloom  recover ;  — 
Thus  the  heart  shall  aye  remain 

Of  the  slighted  lover. 


APPENDIX  291 

Love  is  like  the  songs  we  hear 

O'er  the  moonlit  ocean  ; 
Youth,  the  spring-time  of  a  year 

Passed  in  Love's  devotion  I 
Roses  of  their  bloom  bereft 

Breathe  a  fragrance  sweeter ; 
Beauty  has  no  fragrance  left 

Though  its  bloom  is  fleeter. 

Then  when  tranquil  evening  throws 

Twilight  shades  above  thee, 
And  when  early  morning  glows,  — 

Think  on  those  that  love  thee  1 
For  an  interval  of  years 

We  ere  long  must  sever, 
But  the  hearts  that  love  endears 

Shall  be  parted  never. 

THANKSGIVING. 

The  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  November  15,  1824. 

When  first  in  ancient  time,  from  Jubal's  tongue 

The  tuneful  anthem  filled  the  morning  air, 

To  sacred  hymnings  and  elysian  song 

His  music-breathing  shell  the  minstrel  woke. 

Devotion  breathed  aloud  from  every  chord  : 

The  voice  of  praise  was  heard  in  every  tone, 

And  prayer  and  thanks  to  Him,  the  Eternal  One, 

To  Him,  that  with  bright  inspiration  touched 

The  high  and  gifted  lyre  of  heavenly  song, 

And  warmed  the  soul  with  new  vitality. 

A  stirring  energy  through  Nature  breathed  : 

The  voice  of  adoration  from  her  broke, 

Swelling  aloud  in  every  breeze,  and  heard 

Long  in  the  sullen  waterfall,  what  time 

Soft  Spring  or  hoary  Autumn  threw  on  earth 

Its  bloom  or  blighting ;  when  the  Summer  smiled ; 

Or  Winter  o'er  the  year's  sepulchre  mourned. 

The  Deity  was  there ;  a  nameless  spirit 

Moved  in  the  breasts  of  men  to  do  him  homage ; 

And  when  the  morning  smiled,  or  evening  pale 

Hung  weeping  o'er  the  melancholy  urn, 

They  came  beneath  the  broad,  o'erarching  trees, 

And  in  their  tremulous  shadow  worshipped  oft, 

Where  pale  the  vine  clung  round  their  simple  altars, 

And  gray  moss  mantling  hung.     Above  was  heard 

The  melody  of  winds,  breathed  out  as  the  green  trees 

Bowed  to  their  quivering  touch  in  living  beauty ; 

And  birds  sang  forth  their  cheerful  hymns.    Below, 

The  bright  and  widely  wandering  rivulet 

Struggled  and  gushed  amongst  the  tangled  roots 


292  APPENDIX 

That  choked  its  reedy  fountain,  and  dark  rocks 

Worn  smooth  by  the  constant  current.     Even  there 

The  listless  wave,  that  stole  with  mellow  voice 

"Where  reeds  grew  rank  on  the  rushy-fringed  brink, 

And  the  green  sedge  bent  to  the  wandering  wind, 

Sang  with  a  cheerful  song  of  sweet  tranquillity. 

Men  felt  the  heavenly  influence ;  and  it  stole 

Like  balm  into  their  hearts,  till  all  was  peace : 

And  even  the  air  they  breathed,  the  light  they  saw, 

Became  religion ;  for  the  ethereal  spirit 

That  to  soft  music  wakes  the  chords  of  feeling, 

And  mellows  everything  to  beauty,  moved 

With  cheering  energy  within  their  breasts, 

And  made  all  holy  there,  for  all  was  love. 

The  morning  stars,  that  sweetly  sang  together ; 

The  moon,  that  hung  at  night  in  the  mid-sky ; 

Dayspring  and  eventide ;  and  all  the  fair 

And  beautiful  forms  of  nature,  had  a  voice 

Of  eloquent  worship.     Ocean,  with  its  tides 

Swelling  and  deep,  where  low  the  infant  storm 

Hung  on  his  dun,  dark  cloud,  and  heavily  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  sea,  sent  forth  a  voice 

Of  awful  adoration  to  the  spirit 

That,  wrapt  hi  darkness,  moved  upon  its  face. 

And  when  the  bow  of  evening  arched  the  east, 

Or,  hi  the  moonlight  pale,  the  curling  wave 

Kissed  with  a  sweet  embrace  the  sea-worn  beach, 

And  soft  the  song  of  winds  came  o'er  the  waters, 

The  mingled  melody  of  wind  and  wave 

Touched  like  a  heavenly  anthem  on  the  ear ; 

For  it  arose  a  tuneful  hymn  of  worship. 

And  have  our  hearts  grown  cold  ?    Are  there  on  earth 

No  pure  reflections  caught  from  heavenly  light  ? 

Have  our  mute  lips  no  hymn,  our  souls  no  song  ? 

Let  him  that  in  the  summer-day  of  youth 

Keeps  pure  the  holy  fount  of  youthful  feeling, 

And  him  that  hi  the  nightfall  of  his  years 

Lies  down  in  his  last  sleep,  and  shuts  hi  peace 

His  dim,  pale  eyes  on  life's  short  wayfaring, 

Praise  Him  that  rules  the  destiny  of  man. 

AUTUMNAL   NIGHTFALL. 

The  same,  December  1,  1824. 

Round  Autumn's  mouldering  urn 
Loud  mourns  the  chill  and  cheerless  gale, 
When  nightfall  shades  the  quiet  vale, 

And  stars  in  beauty  burn. 

'T  is  the  year's  eventide. 
The  wind,  like  one  that  sighs  in  pain 
O'er  joys  that  ne'er  will  bloom  again 

Mourns  on  the  far  hillside. 


APPENDIX  293 

And  yet  my  pensive  eye 
Rests  on  the  faint  blue  mountain  long ; 
And  for  the  fairy-land  of  song, 

That  lies  beyond,  I  sigh. 

The  moon  unveils  her  brow ; 
In  the  mid-sky  her  urn  glows  bright, 
And  hi  her  sad  and  mellowing  light 

The  valley  sleeps  below. 

Upon  the  hazel  gray 
The  lyre  of  Autumn  hangs  unstrung, 
And  o'er  its  tremulous  chords  are  flung 

The  fringes  of  decay. 

I  stand  deep  musing  here, 
Beneath  the  dark  and  motionless  beech, 
Whilst  wandering  winds  of  nightfall  reach 

My  melancholy  ear. 

The  air  breathes  chill  and  free : 
A  spirit  in  soft  music  calls 
From  Autumn's  gray  and  moss-grown  hallo, 

And  round  her  withered  tree. 

The  hoar  and  mantled  oak, 
With  moss  and  twisted  ivy  brown, 
Bends  in  its  lifeless  beauty  down 

Where  weeds  the  fountain  choke. 

That  fountain's  hollow  voice 
Echoes  the  sound  of  precious  things; 
Of  early  feeling's  tuneful  springs 

Choked  with  our  blighted  joys. 

Leaves,  that  the  night-wind  bears 
To  earth's  cold  bosom  with  a  sigh, 
Are  types  of  our  mortality, 

And  of  our  fading  years. 

The  tree  that  shades  the  plain, 
Wasting  and  hoar  as  time  decays, 
Spring  shall  renew  with  cheerful  days,  — 

But  not  my  joys  again. 

ITALIAN   SCENERY. 

The  same,  December  15,  1824. 

Night  rests  in  beauty  on  Mont  Alto. 
Beneath  its  shade  the  beauteous  Arno  sleeps 
In  Vallombrosa's  bosom,  and  dark  trees 
Bend  with  a  calm  and  quiet  shadow  down 
Upon  the  beauty  of  that  silent  river. 


294  APPENDIX 

Still  in  the  west  a  melancholy  smile 

Mantles  the  lips  of  day,  and  twilight  pale 

Moves  like  a  spectre  in  the  dusky  sky, 

While  eve's  sweet  star  on  the  fast-fading  year 

Smiles  calmly.     Music  steals  at  intervals 

Across  the  water,  with  a  tremulous  swell, 

From  out  the  upland  dingle  of  tall  firs  ; 

And  a  fault  footfall  sounds,  where,  dun  and  dark, 

Hangs  the  gray  willow  from  the  river's  brink, 

O'ershadowing  its  current.     Slowly  there 

The  lover's  gondola  drops  down  the  stream, 

Silent,  save  when  its  dipping  oar  is  heard, 

Or  in  its  eddy  sighs  the  rippling  wave. 

Mouldering  and  moss-grown  through  the  lapse  of  years, 

In  motionless  beauty  stands  the  giant  oak ; 

Whilst  those  that  saw  its  green  and  flourishing  youth 

Are  gone  and  are  forgotten.     Soft  the  fount, 

Whose  secret  springs  the  starlight  pale  discloses, 

Gushes  in  hollow  music  ;  and  beyond 

The  broader  river  sweeps  its  silent  way, 

Mingling  a  silver  current  with  that  sea, 

Whose  waters  have  no  tides,  coming  nor  going. 

On  noiseless  wing  along  that  fair  blue  sea 

The  halcyon  flits ;  and,  where  the  wearied  storm 

Left  a  loud  moaning,  all  is  peace  again. 

A  calm  is  on  the  deep.     The  winds  that  came 
O'er  the  dark  sea-surge  with  a  tremulous  breathing, 
And  mourned  on  the  dark  cliff  where  weeds  grew  rank, 
And  to  the  autumnal  death-dirge  the  deep  sea 
Heaved  its  long  billows,  with  a  cheerless  song 
Have  passed  away  to  the  cold  earth  again, 
Like  a  wayfaring  mourner.     Silently 
Up  from  the  calm  sea's  dun  and  distant  verge, 
Full  and  unveiled,  the  moon's  broad  disk  emerges. 
On  Tivoli,  and  where  the  fairy  hues 
Of  autumn  glow  upon  Abruzzi's  woods, 
The  silver  light  is  spreading.    Far  above, 
Encompassed  with  their  thin,  cold  atmosphere, 
The  Apennines  uplift  their  snowy  brows, 
Glowing  with  colder  beauty,  where  unheard 
The  eagle  screams  in  the  fathomless  ether, 
And  stays  his  wearied  wing.    Here  let  us  pause. 
The  spirit  of  these  solitudes  —  the  soul 
That  dwells  within  these  steep  and  difficult  places  — 
Speaks  a  mysterious  language  to  mine  own, 
And  brings  unutterable  musings.    Earth 
Sleeps  in  the  shades  of  nightfall,  and  the  sea 
Spreads  like  a  thin  blue  haze  beneath  my  feet ; 
Whilst  the  gray  columns  and  the  mouldering  tombs 
Of  the  Imperial  City,  hidden  deep 
Beneath  the  mantle  of  their  shadows,  rest. 


APPENDIX  295 

My  spirit  looks  on  earth.     A  heavenly  voice 

Comes  silently :  "  Dreamer,  is  earth  thy  dwelling  T 

Lo !  nursed  within  that  fair  and  f ruitf ul  bosom, 

Which  has  sustained  thy  being,  and  within 

The  colder  breast  of  Ocean,  lie  the  germs 

Of  thine  own  dissolution  !     E'en  the  air, 

That  fans  the  clear  blue  sky,  and  gives  thee  strength, 

Up  from  the  sullen  lake  of  mouldering  reeds, 

And  the  wide  waste  of  forest,  where  the  osier 

Thrives  in  the  damp  and  motionless  atmosphere, 

Shall  bring  the  dire  and  wasting  pestilence, 

And  blight  thy  cheek.     Dream  thou  of  higher  things : 

This  world  is  not  thy  home  !  "     And  yet  my  eye 

Rests  upon  earth  again.     How  beautiful, 

Where  wild  Velino  heaves  its  sullen  waves 

Down  the  high  cliff  of  gray  and  shapeless  granite, 

Hung  on  the  curling  mist,  the  moonlight  bow 

Arches  the  perilous  river !     A  soft  light 

Silvers  the  Albanian  mountains,  and  the  haze 

That  rests  upon  their  summits  mellows  down 

The  austerer  features  of  their  beauty.     Faint 

And  dim-discovered  glow  the  Sabine  hills ; 

And,  listening  to  the  sea's  monotonous  shell, 

High  on  the  cliffs  of  Terracina  stands 

The  castle  of  the  royal  Goth *  hi  ruins. 

But  night  is  in  her  wane :  day's  early  flush 
Glows  like  a  hectic  on  her  fading  cheek, 
Wasting  its  beauty.     And  the  opening  dawn 
With  cheerful  lustre  lights  the  royal  city, 
Where,  with  its  proud  tiara  of  dark  towers, 
It  sleeps  upon  its  own  romantic  bay. 


THE   LUXATIC    GIRL, 

The  same,  January  1,  1825. 

Most  beautiful,  most  gentle !     Tet  how  lost 
To  all  that  gladdens  the  fair  earth  ;  the  eye 
That  watched  her  being  ;  the  maternal  care 
That  kept  and  nourished  her ;  and  the  calm  light 
That  steals  from  our  own  thoughts,  and  softly  rests 
On  youth's  green  valleys  and  smooth-sliding  waters. 
Alas  !  few  suns  of  life,  and  fewer  winds, 
Had  withered  or  had  wasted  the  fresh  rose 
That  bloomed  upon  her  cheek  :  but  one  chill  frost 
Came  in  that  early  autumn,  when  ripe  thought 
Is  rich  and  beautiful,  and  blighted  it ; 
And  the  fair  stalk  grew  languid  day  by  day, 
And  drooped  —  and  drooped,  and  shed  its  many  leave 
1  Theodoric. 


296  APPENDIX 

'T  is  said  that  some  have  died  of  lore  ;  and  some, 

That  once  from  beauty's  high  romance  had  caught 

Love's  passionate  feelings  and  heart-wasting  cares, 

Have  spurned  life's  threshold  with  a  desperate  foot ; 

And  others  have  gone  mad,  —  and  she  was  one ! 

Her  lover  died  at  sea ;  and  they  had  felt 

A  coldness  for  each  other  when  they  parted, 

But  love  returned  again  :  and  to  her  ear 

Came  tidings  that  the  ship  which  bore  her  lover 

Had  sullenly  gone  down  at  sea,  and  all  were  lost. 

I  saw  her  in  her  native  vale,  when  high 

The  aspiring  lark  up  from  the  reedy  river 

Mounted  on  cheerful  pinion ;  and  she  sat 

Casting  smooth  pebbles  into  a  clear  fountain, 

And  marking  how  they  sunk ;  and  oft  she  sighed 

For  him  that  perished  thus  in  the  vast  deep. 

She  had  a  sea-shell,  that  her  lover  brought 

From  the  far-distant  ocean ;  and  she  pressed 

Its  smooth,  cold  lips  unto  her  ear,  and  thought 

It  whispered  tidings  of  the  dark  blue  sea ; 

And  sad,  she  cried,  "  The  tides  are  out !  —  and  now 

I  see  his  corse  upon  the  stormy  beach !  " 

Around  her  neck  a  string  of  rose-lipped  shells, 

And  coral,  and  white  pearl,  was  loosely  hung ; 

And  close  beside  her  lay  a  delicate  fan, 

Hade  of  the  halcyon's  blue  wing ;  and,  when 

She  looked  upon  it,  it  would  calm  her  thoughts 

As  that  bird  calms  the  ocean,  —  for  it  gave 

Mournful,  yet  pleasant,  memory.     Once  I  marked, 

When  through  the  mountain  hollows  and  green  woods, 

That  bent  beneath  its  footsteps,  the  loud  wind 

Came  with  a  voice  as  of  the  restless  deep, 

She  raised  her  head,  and  on  her  pale,  cold  cheek 

A  beauty  of  diviner  seeming  came  ; 

And  then  she  spread  her  hands,  and  smiled,  as  if 

She  welcomed  a  long-absent  friend,  —  and  then 

Shrunk  timorously  back  again,  and  wept. 

I  turned  away :  a  multitude  of  thoughts, 

Mournful  and  dark,  were  crowding  on  my  mind  ; 

And  as  I  left  that  lost  and  ruined  one,  — 

A  living  monument  that  still  on  earth 

There  is  warm  love  and  deep  sincerity,  — 

She  gazed  upon  the  west,  where  the  blue  sky 

Held,  like  an  ocean,  in  its  wide  embrace 

Those  fairy  islands  of  bright  cloud,  that  lay 

So  calm  and  quietly  in  the  thin  ether. 

And  then  she  pointed  where,  alone  and  high, 

One  little  cloud  sailed  onward,  like  a  lost 

And  wandering  bark,  and  fainter  grew,  and  fainter, 

And  soon  was  swallowed  up  in  the  blue  depths ; 

And,  when  it  sunk  away,  she  turned  again 

With  sad  despondency  and  tears  to  earth. 


APPENDIX  297 

Three  long  and  weary  months  —  yet  not  a  whisper 
Of  stern  reproach  for  that  cold  parting !    Then 
She  sat  no  longer  by  her  favorite  fountain : 
She  was  at  rest  forever. 

THE   VENETIAN   GONDOLIER. 

The  same,  January  15,  1825. 

Here  rest  the  weary  oar  !  —  soft  airs 

Breathe  out  in  the  o'erarching  sky ; 
And  Night  —  sweet  Night  —  serenely  wears 

A  smile  of  peace :  her  noon  is  nigh. 

Where  the  tall  fir  in  quiet  stands, 
And  waves,  embracing  the  chaste  shores, 

Move  over  sea-shells  and  bright  sands, 
Is  heard  the  sound  of  dipping  oars. 

Swift  o'er  the  wave  the  light  bark  springs, 
Love's  midnight  hour  draws  lingering  near ; 

And  list !  —  his  tuneful  viol  strings 
The  young  Venetian  Gondolier. 

Lo !  on  the  silver-mirrored  deep, 

On  earth,  and  her  embosomed  lakes, 
And  where  the  silent  rivers  sweep, 

From  the  thin  cloud  fair  moonlight  breaks. 

Soft  music  breathes  around,  and  dies 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  the  sea ; 
Whilst  in  her  cell  the  novice  sighs 

Her  vespers  to  her  rosary. 

At  their  dim  altars  bow  fair  forms, 

In  tender  charity  for  those, 
That,  helpless  left  to  life's  rude  storms, 

Have  never  found  this  calm  repose. 

The  bell  swings  to  its  midnight  chime, 

Relieved  against  the  deep  blue  sky. 
Haste  !  —  dip  the  oar  again  —  't  is  time 

To  seek  Genevra's  balcony. 

THE  ANGLER'S  SONG. 

Inserted  in  a  number  of  The  Lay  Monastery  (a  short  series 
of  essays  contributed  by  Mr.  Longfellow  to  The  United  States 
Literary  Gazette),  March  15,  1825. 

From  the  river's  plashy  bank, 
Where  the  sedge  grows  green  and  rank, 
And  the  twisted  woodbine  springs, 


298  APPENDIX 

Upward  speeds  the  morning  lark 
To  its  silver  cloud  —  and  hark  ! 
On  his  way  the  woodman  sings. 

On  the  dim  and  misty  lakes 
Gloriously  the  morning  breaks, 

And  the  eagle  's  on  his  cloud :  — 
Whilst  the  wind,  with  sighing,  wooes 
To  its  arms  the  chaste  cold  ooze, 

And  the  rustling  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Where  the  embracing  ivy  holds 
Close  the  hoar  elm  in  its  folds, 

In  the  meadow's  fenny  land, 
And  the  winding  river  sweeps 
Through  its  shallows  and  still  deeps,  — 

Silent  with  my  rod  I  stand. 

But  when  sultry  suns  are  high 
Underneath  the  oak  I  lie 

As  it  shades  the  water's  edge, 
And  I  mark  my  line,  away 
In  the  wheeling  eddy,  play, 

Tangling  with  the  river  sedge. 

When  the  eye  of  evening  looks 

On  green  woods  and  winding  brooks, 

And  the  wind  sighs  o'er  the  lea,  — 
Woods  and  streams,  —  I  leave  you  then, 
While  the  shadow  in  the  glen 

Lengthens  by  the  greenwood  tree. 

LOVER'S  ROCK. 
Published  in  the  Portland  Advertiser,  Jane  10,  1825. 

They  showed  us  near  the  outlet  of  Sebago,  the  Lover's  Bock,  from  which  aa 
Indian  maid  threw  herself  down  into  the  lake,  when  the  guests  were  coming 
together  to  the  marriage  festival  of  her  false-hearted  lover.  —  Leaf  from  a 
Traveller**  Journal. 

There  is  a  love  that  cannot  die !  — 

And  some  their  doom  have  met 
Heart-broken  —  and  gone  as  stars  go  by, 

That  rise,  and  bum,  and  set. 
Their  days  were  in  Spring's  fallen  leaf  — 
Tender  —  and  young  —  and  bright — and  brief. 

There  is  a  love  that  cannot  die !  — 

Aye  —  it  survives  the  grave ; 
When  life  goes  out  with  many  a  sigh, 

And  earth  takes  what  it  gave, 


APPENDIX  299 

Its  light  is  on  the  home  of  those 

That  heed  not  when  the  cold  wind  blows. 

With  us  there  are  sad  records  left 

Of  life's  declining  day : 
How  true  hearts  here  were  broken  and  cleft, 

And  how  they  passed  away. 
And  yon  dark  rock,  that  swells  above 
Its  blue  lake  —  has  a  tale  of  love. 

T  is  of  an  Indian  maid,  whose  fate 

Was  saddened  by  the  burst 
Of  passion,  that  made  desolate 

The  heart  it  filled  at  first 
Her  lover  was  false-hearted,  —  yet 
Her  love  she  never  could  forget. 

It  was  a  summer-day,  and  bright 

The  sun  was  going  down  : 
The  wave  lay  blushing  in  rich  light 

Beneath  the  dark  rock's  frown, 
And  under  the  green  maple's  shade 
Her  lover's  bridal  feast  was  made. 

She  stood  upon  the  rocky  steep, 

Grief  had  her  heart  unstrung, 
And  far  across  the  lake's  blue  sweep 

Was  heard  the  dirge  she  sung. 
It  ceased  — and  in  the  deep  cold  wave, 
The  Indian  Girl  has  made  her  grave. 


DIKGE   OVER   A   NAMELESS  GRAVE. 

The  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  March  15, 1825. 

By  yon  still  river,  where  the  wave 
Is  winding  slow  at  evening's  close, 

The  beech,  upon  a  nameless  grave, 
Its  sadly-moving  shadow  throws. 

O'er  the  fair  woods  the  sun  looks  down 

Upon  the  many-twinkling  leaves, 
And  twilight's  mellow  shades  are  brown, 

Where  darkly  the  green  turf  upheaves. 

The  river  glides  hi  silence  there, 
And  hardly  waves  the  sapling  tree  : 

Sweet  flowers  are  springing,  and  the  air 
Is  full  of  balm  —  but  where  is  she  ! 


300  APPENDIX 

They  bade  her  wed  a  son  of  pride, 
And  leave  the  hopes  she  cherished  long  : 

She  loved  but  one  —  and  would  not  hide 
A  love  which  knew  a  wrong. 

And  months  went  sadly  on  —  and  years : 
And  she  was  wasting  day  by  day : 

At  length  she  died  —  and  many  tears 
Were  shed,  that  she  should  pass  away. 

Then  came  a  gray  old  man,  and  knelt 
With  bitter  weeping  by  her  tomb : 

And  others  mourned  for  him,  who  felt 
That  he  had  sealed  a  daughter's  doom. 

The  funeral  train  has  long  past  on, 
And  time  wiped  dry  the  father's  tear  1 

Farewell  —  lost  maiden  !  — there  is  one 
That  mourns  thee  yet  —  and  he  is  here. 


A  SONG  OF   SAVOY. 

The  same,  same  date. 

As  the  dim  twilight  shrouds 
The  mountain's  purple  crest, 

And  Summer's  white  and  folded  clouds 
Are  glowing  in  the  west, 

Loud  shouts  come  up  the  rocky  dell, 

And  voices  hail  the  evening-belL 

Faint  is  the  goatherd's  song, 
And  sighing  comes  the  breeze : 

The  silent  river  sweeps  along 
Amid  its  bending  trees  — 

And  the  full  moon  shines  faintly  there, 

And  music  fills  the  evening  air. 

Beneath  the  waving  Srs 
The  tinkling  cymbals  sound ; 

And  as  the  wind  the  foliage  stirs, 
I  see  the  dancers  bound 

Where  the  green  branches,  arched  above, 

Bend  over  this  fair  scene  of  love. 

And  he  is  there,  that  sought 
My  young  heart  long  ago ! 

But  he  has  left  me  —  though  I  thought 
He  ne'er  could  leave  me  so. 

Ah !  lovers'  vows  —  how  frail  are  they  * 

And  his  —  were  made  but  yesterday. 


APPENDIX  301 

Why  cornea  he  not  ?    I  call 

In  tears  upon  him  yet ; 
T  were  better  ne'er  to  love  at  all, 

Than  love,  and  then  forget ! 
Why  comes  he  not  ?    Alas !    I  should 
Reclaim  him  still,  if  weeping  could. 

But  see  —  he  leaves  the  glade, 

And  beckons  me  away : 
He  comes  to  seek  his  mountain  maid ! 

I  cannot  chide  his  stay. 
Glad  sounds  along  the  valley  swell, 
And  voices  hail  the  evening-bell. 

THE  INDIAN   HUNTER. 

The  same,  May  15,  1825. 

When  the  summer  harvest  was  gathered  in, 

And  the  sheaf  of  the  gleaner  grew  white  and  thin, 

And  the  ploughshare  was  in  its  furrow  left, 

Where  the  stubble  land  had  been  lately  cleft, 

An  Indian  hunter,  with  unstrung  bow, 

Looked  down  where  the  valley  lay  stretched  below 

He  was  a  stranger  there,  and  all  that  day 
Had  been  out  on  the  hills,  a  perilous  way, 
But  the  foot  of  the  deer  was  far  and  fleet, 
And  the  wolf  kept  aloof  from  the  hunter's  feet. 
And  bitter  feelings  passed  o'er  him  then, 
As  he  stood  by  the  populous  haunts  of  men. 

The  winds  of  autumn  came  over  the  woods 
As  the  sun  stole  out  from  their  solitudes ; 
The  moss  was  white  on  the  maple's  trunk, 
And  dead  from  its  arms  the  pale  vine  shrunk, 
And  ripened  the  mellow  fruit  hung,  and  red 
Were  the  tree's  withered  leaves  round  it  shed. 

The  foot  of  the  reaper  moved  slow  on  the  lawn, 
And  the  sickle  cut  down  the  yellow  corn  — 
The  mower  sung  loud  by  the  meadow-side, 
Where  the  mists  of  evening  were  spreading  wide, 
And  the  voice  of  the  herdsmen  came  up  the  lea, 
And  the  dance  went  round  by  the  greenwood  tree. 

Then  the  hunter  turned  away  from  that  scene, 
Where  the  home  of  his  fathers  once  had  been, 
And  heard  by  the  distant  and  measured  stroke, 
That  the  woodman  hewed  down  the  giant  oak, 
And  burning  thoughts  flashed  over  his  mind 
Of  the  white  man's  faith,  and  love  unkind. 


302  APPENDIX 

The  moon  of  the  harvest  grew  high  and  bright, 
As  her  golden  horn  pierced  the  cloud  of  white  — 
A  footstep  was  heard  in  the  rustling  brake, 
Where  the  beech  overshadowed  the  misty  lake, 
And  a  mourning  voice,  and  a  plunge  from  shore,  — 
And  the  hunter  was  seen  on  the  hills  no  more. 

When  years  had  passed  on,  by  that  still  lakeside 
The  fisher  looked  down  through  the  silver  tide, 
And  there,  on  the  smooth  yellow  «md  displayed, 
A  skeleton  wasted  and  white  was  laid, 
And  't  was  seen,  as  the  waters  moved  deep  and  slow, 
That  the  hand  was  still  grasping  a  hunter's  bow. 


ODE  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  COMMEMORATION  AT  FRYEBURGj 
MAINE,  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FI^HT, 

And  printed  in  the  Gazette  of  Maine,  May  24,  1825. 

Air — Brace's  Address, 


Many  a  day  and  wasted  year 
Bright  has  left  its  footsteps  here, 
Since  was  broke  the  warrior's  spa  t 

And  our  fathers  bled. 
Still  the  tall  trees,  arching,  shake 
Where  the  fleet  deer  by  the  lake, 
As  he  dash'd  through  birch  and  brake. 

From  the  hunter  fled. 


In  these  ancient  woods  so  bright, 
That  are  full  of  life  and  light, 
Many  a  dark,  mysterious  rite 

The  stern  warriors  kept. 
But  their  altars  are  bereft, 
Fall'n  to  earth,  and  strewn  and  clefty 
And  a  holier  faith  is  left 

Where  their  fathers  slept. 

in. 

From  their  ancient  sepulchres, 
Where  amid  the  giant  firs, 
Moaning  loud,  the  high  wind  stirs, 

Have  the  red  men  gone. 
Tow'rd  the  setting  sun  that  makes 
Bright  our  western  hills  and  lakes, 
Faint  and  few,  the  remnant  takes 

Its  sad  journey  on. 


APPENDIX  303 


Where  the  Indian  hamlet  stood, 
In  the  interminable  wood, 
Battle  broke  the  solitude, 

And  the  war-cry  rose ; 
Sudden  came  the  straggling  shot 
Where  the  sun  looked  on  the  spot 
That  the  trace  of  war  would  blot 

Ere  the  day's  faint  close. 


Low  the  smoke  of  battle  hung ; 
Heavy  down  the  lake  it  swung, 
Till  the  death  wail  loud  was  sung 

When  the  night  shades  fell ; 
And  the  green  pine,  waving  dark, 
Held  within  its  shattered  bark 
Many  a  lasting  scathe  and  mark, 

That  a  tale  could  tell. 


And  the  story  of  that  day 
Shall  not  pass  from  earth  away, 
Nor  the  blighting  of  decay 

Waste  our  liberty ; 
But  within  the  river's  sweep 
Long  in  peace  our  vale  shall  sleep 
And  free  hearts  the  record  keep 

Of  this  jubilee. 

JECKOYVA. 

The  Indian  chief,  Jeckoyva,  as  tradition  says,  perished  alone  on  the  moun- 
tain which  now  bears  his  name.  Night  overtook  him  whilst  hunting  among 
the  cliffs,  and  he  was  not  heard  of  till  after  a  long  time,  when  his  half-decayed 
corpse  was  found  at  the  foot  of  a  high  rock,  over  which  he  must  have  fallen. 
Mount  Jeckoyva  is  near  the  White  Hills.  H.  W.  L. 

The  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  August  11,  1825. 

They  made  the  warrior's  grave  beside 
The  dashing  of  his  native  tide  : 
And  there  was  mourning  in  the  glen  — 
The  strong  wail  of  a  thousand  men  — 

O'er  him  thus  fallen  in  his  pride, 
Ere  mist  of  age  —  or  blight  or  blast 
Had  o'er  his  mighty  spirit  past. 

They  made  the  warrior's  grave  beneath 
The  bending  of  the  wild  elm's  wreath, 


304  APPENDIX 

When  the  dark  hunter's  piercing  eye 
Had  found  that  mountain  rest  on  high, 

"Where,  scattered  by  the  sharp  wind's  breath, 
Beneath  the  rugged  cliff  were  thrown 
The  strong  belt  and  the  mouldering  bone. 

Where  was  the  warrior's  foot,  when  first 
The  red  sun  on  the  mountain  burst  ? 
Where  — when  the  sultry  noon- time  came 
On  the  green  vales  with  scorching  flame, 

And  made  the  woodlands  faint  with  thirst  ? 
'Twas  where  the  wind  is  keen  and  loud, 
And  the  gray  eagle  breasts  the  cloud. 

Where  was  the  warrior's  foot  when  night 
Veiled  in  thick  cloud  the  mountain-height  ? 
None  heard  the  loud  and  sudden  crash  — 
None  saw  the  fallen  warrior  dash 

Down  the  bare  rock  so  high  and  white  ! 
But  he  that  drooped  not  in  the  chase 
Made  on  the  hills  his  burial-place. 

They  found  him  there,  when  the  long  day 
Of  cold  desertion  passed  away, 
And  traces  on  that  barren  cleft 
Of  struggling  hard  with  death  were  left  — 
Deep  marks  and  footprints  in  the  clay ! 
And  they  have  laid  this  feathery  helm 
By  the  dark  river  and  green  elm. 

THE   SEA-DIVER. 

The  same,  August  15,  1825.  This  with  thirteen  other 
poems  was  included  in  a  volume  published  in  1826,  entitled 
Miscellaneous  Poems  selected  from  The  United  States  Literary 
Gazette. 

My  way  is  on  the  bright  blue  sea, 

My  sleep  upon  its  rocking  tide  ; 
And  many  an  eye  has  followed  me 

Where  billows  clasp  the  worn  seaside. 

My  plumage  bears  the  crimson  blush, 

When  ocean  by  the  sun  is  kissed  ! 
When  fades  the  evening's  purple  flush, 

My  dark  wing  cleaves  the  silver  mist. 

Full  many  a  fathom  down  beneath 

The  bright  arch  of  the  splendid  deep 
My  ear  has  heard  the  sea-shell  breathe 

O'er  living  myriads  in  their  sleep. 


APPENDIX  303 

They  rested  by  the  coral  throne, 

And  by  the  pearly  diadem ; 
Where  the  pale  sea-grape  had  o'ergrown 

The  glorious  dwellings  made  for  them. 

At  night  upon  my  storm-drench'd  wing, 

I  poised  above  a  helmless  bark, 
And  soon  I  saw  the  shattered  thing 

Had  passed  away  and  left  no  mark. 

And  when  the  wind  and  storm  were  done, 

A  ship,  that  had  rode  out  the  gale, 
Sunk  down,  without  a  signal- gun, 

And  none  was  left  to  tell  the  tale. 

I  saw  the  pomp  of  day  depart  — 

The  cloud  resign  its  golden  crown, 
When  to  the  ocean's  beating  heart 

The  sailor's  wasted  corse  went  down. 

Peace  be  to  those  whose  graves  are  made 

Beneath  the  bright  and  silver  sea ! 
Peace  —  that  their  relics  there  were  laid 

With  no  vain  pride  and  pageantry. 

MUSINGS. 

The  same,  November  15,  1825. 

I  sat  by  my  window  one  night, 

And  watched  how  the  stars  grew  high ; 
And  the  earth  and  skies  were  a  splendid  sight 

To  a  sober  and  musing  eye. 

From  heaven  the  silver  moon  shone  down 

With  gentle  and  mellow  ray, 
And  beneath  the  crowded  roofs  of  the  town 

In  broad  light  and  shadow  lay. 

A  glory  was  on  the  silent  sea, 

And  mainland  and  island  too, 
Till  a  haze  came  over  the  lowland  lea, 

And  shrouded  that  beautiful  blue. 

Bright  in  the  moon  the  autumn  wood 

Its  crimson  scarf  unrolled, 
And  the  trees  like  a  splendid  army  stood 

In  a  panoply  of  gold  1 

I  saw  them  waving  their  banners  high, 
As  their  crests  to  the  night  wind  bowed, 

And  a  distant  sound  on  the  air  went  by, 
Like  the  whispering  of  a  crowd. 


306  APPENDIX 

Then  I  watched  from  my  window  how  fast 

The  lights  all  around  me  fled, 
As  the  wearied  man  to  his  slumber  passed 

And  the  sick  one  to  his  bed. 

All  faded  save  one,  that  burned 
With  distant  and  steady  light ; 

But  that,  too,  went  out  —  and  I  turned 
Where  my  own  lamp  within  shone  bright ! 

Thus,  thought  I,  our  joys  must  die, 
Tes  —  the  brightest  from  earth  we  win  : 

Till  each  turns  away,  with  a  sigh, 
To  the  lamp  that  burns  brightly  within. 

SONG. 

The  same,  April  1,  1826. 

Where,  from  the  eye  of  day, 

The  dark  and  silent  river 
Pursues  through  tangled  woods  a  way 

O'er  which  the  tall  trees  quiver ; 

The  silver  mist,  that  breaks 
From  out  that  woodland  cover, 

Betrays  the  hidden  path  it  takes, 
And  hangs  the  current  over  1 

So  oft  the  thoughts  that  burst 
From  hidden  springs  of  feeling, 

Like  silent  streams,  unseen  at  first, 
From  our  cold  hearts  are  stealing: 

But  soon  the  clouds  that  veil 
The  eye  of  Love,  when  glowing, 

Betray  the  long  unwhispered  tale 
Of  thoughts  in  darkness  flowing ! 

SONG  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

Published  in  The  Atlantic  Souvenir,  1827. 

With  what  a  hollow  dirge,  its  voice  did  fill 
The  vast  and  empty  hollow  of  the  night !  — 
It  had  perched  itself  upon  a  tall  old  tree, 
That  hung  its  tufted  and  thick  clustering  leaves 
Midway  across  the  brook  ;  and  sung  most  sweetly, 
In  all  the  merry  and  heart-broken  sadness 
Of  those  that  love  hath  crazed.    Clearly  it  ran 
Through  all  the  delicate  compass  of  its  voice :  — 
And  then  again,  as  from  a  distant  hollow, 


APPENDIX  307 

I  heard  its  sweet  tones  like  an  echo  sounding, 

And  coming,  like  the  memory  of  a  friend 

From  a  far  distant  country  —  or  the  silent  land 

Of  the  mourned  and  the  dead,  to  which  we  all  are  passing ; 

It  seemed  the  song  of  some  poor  broken  heart, 

Haunted  forever  with  love's  cruel  fancies  !  — 

Of  one  that  has  loved  much  yet  never  known 

The  luxury  of  being  loved  again  ! 

But  when  the  morning  broke,  and  the  green  woods 

Were  all  alive  with  birds  —  with  what  a  clear 

And  ravishing  sweetness  sung  the  plaintive  thrush ; 

I  love  to  hear  its  delicate  rich  voice, 

Chanting  through  all  the  gloomy  day,  when  loud 

Amid  the  trees  is  dropping  the  big  rain, 

And  gray  mists  wrap  the  hills ;  —  for  aye  the  sweeter 

Its  song  is,  when  the  day  is  sad  and  dark.     And  thus, 

When  the  bright  fountains  of  a  woman's  love 

Are  gently  running  over,  if  a  cloud 

But  darken,  with  its  melancholy  shadow, 

The  bright  flowers  round  our  way,  her  heart 

Doth  learn  new  sweetness,  and  her  rich  voice  falls 

With  more  delicious  music  on  our  ears. 


II.  NOTES  TO  THE  POEMS  IN  THIS  VOLUME. 

Page  17.  And  bishop's-caps  have  golden  rings. 

[The   bishop's  cap  is  the  mitella,  a  New  England  wild 
flower,  named  from  its  resemblance  to  a  mitre.] 

Page  19.  Look,  then,  into  thine  heart  and  write. 

"  Fool  !  said  my  muse  to  me,  look  in  thy  heart  and  write." 
Astrophel  and  Stella,  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney.] 

Page  22.  The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers. 

[The  first  line  is  from  an  old  German  Catholic  hymn, 
Es  ist  ein  Schnitter,  der  heisst  Tod, 

which  may  be  found  in  Clemens  Brentano's  Wunderhorn,  I. 
55.  There  is  a  slight  resemblance  in  the  fifth  stanza  to  the 
last  of  the  German,  — 

Werd  ich  nur  verletzet 
Bo  war  ich  versetzet 
In  den  himmlischen  Garten 
Auf  den  alle  wir  warten. 

Further  than  this  there  is  no  resemblance  between  the  two 
poems.] 


308  APPENDIX 

Page.  25.  Footsteps  of  Angels. 

[The  first  form  of  this  poem  under  another  title  is  as  fol- 
lows. See  further  the  head-note  to  the  poem.] 

EVENING   SHADOWS. 

When  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered, 

And  the  soul-like  voice  of  night 
Wakes  the  better  soul  that  slumbered 

To  a  holy  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 

And,  like  spectres  grim  and  tall, 
Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 

Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall,  — 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted 

Come  to  sit  with  me  once  more. 

And  with  them  the  being  beauteous 

Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 
More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 

And  is  now  a  saint  hi  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 

Comes  she,  like  a  shape  divine, 
Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 

Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me, 

With  her  deep  and  tender  eyes, 
Like  the  stars  so  still  and  saint-like 

Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Page  27.  Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden. 

[The  reference  in  the  first  stanza  is  to  Carove,  who,  in  the 
Story  without  an  End,  speaks  of  "  Flowerets,  that  like  blue 
stars  gleam  friendly  in  the  green  firmament  of  the  earth."] 

Page  29.  Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers. 

[The  Floral  Games  of  the  Middle  Ages,  wherein  a  Golden 
Violet  was  the  prize  awarded  to  the  victor  in  the  "  gay  sci- 
ence "  of  Song.] 

Page  33.  The  wind  Eurodydon. 

["  Have  you  seen  the  last  Knickerbocker  ? "  Mr.  Longf el« 
low  asks  in  a  letter  to  his  father,  December  5, 1839.  "  They 


APPENDIX  309 

are  raising  a  slight  breeze  in  it  against  the  '  wind  Eurocly- 
don.'  But  I  am  right  notwithstanding.  It  means  a  storm- 
wind  —  or  a  north-easter,  coming  over  the  sea  ;  and  is  no 
more  confined  to  the  Mediterranean  than  rude  Boreas.  Look 
into  Robinson's  Lexicon,  and  you  will  find  the  whole  ex- 
plained." The  November  number  of  the  Knickerbocker  con- 
tained an  objection  by  a  correspondent  to  Mr.  Longfellow' s 
use  of  the  term  Euroclydon.  "  What  in  the  name  of  Bo- 
reas does  it  on  the  coast  of  Labrador  !  .  .  .  the  Eurocly- 
don is  a  bilious  Nor' Easter,  and  bloweth  only  in  the  Medi- 
terranean." In  the  December  number  of  the  same  maga- 
zine, a  Southern  correspondent  comes  to  the  defence,  and 
quotes  Robinson,  sub  voce.~\ 

Page  39.    Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem. 

[The  historic  facts  in  regard  to  the  banner  appear  to  be 
that  Pulaski  ordered  it  of  the  Moravian  sisters  at  Bethle- 
hem, who  helped  to  support  their  house  by  needlework. 
This  banner  is  preserved  in  the  cabinet  of  the  Maryland  His- 
torical Society  at  Baltimore  ;  it  is  twenty  inches  square  and 
made  to  be  carried  on  a  lance.  It  is  of  double  silk,  now  so 
much  faded  and  discolored  by  time  as  to  make  it  impossible 
to  determine  its  original  color.  On  both  sides  designs  are 
embroidered  with  what  was  yellow  silk,  shaded  with  green, 
and  deep  silk  fringe  bordering.  On  one  side  are  the  letters 
"  U.  S.,"  and  in  a  circle  around  them  the  words,  "  Unitas 
Virtus  Fortior  "  /  on  the  other  side,  in  the  centre,  is  embroi- 
dered an  all-seeing  eye  and  the  words  "  Non  Alius  Regit" 
Pulaski  received  a  mortal  wound  at  the  siege  of  Savannah, 
and  dying  on  one  of  the  vessels  of  the  fleet  when  he  was  on 
his  way  north,  was  buried  at  sea.  It  is  said  that  Lafayette 
lay  sick  at  Bethlehem,  and  that  it  was  on  a  visit  to  his 
brother  officer  that  Pulaski  ordered  the  flag.  Its  size,  in 
any  event,  would  have  precluded  its  use  as  a  shroud.] 

Page  55.  The  Skeleton  in  Armor. 

[The  historic  groundwork  upon  which  Mr.  Longfellow 
built  his  legend  is  in  two  parts,  the  Newport  tower  and  the 
Fall  River  skeleton.  The  passage  from  Rafn,  to  which  Mr. 
Longfellow  refers  as  affording  a  poet  sufficient  basis  upon 
which  to  build,  is  as  follows  :  — 


310  APPENDIX 

"  There  is  no  mistaking  in  this  instance  the  style  in  which 
the  more  ancient  stone  edifices  of  the  North  were  con- 
structed, —  the  style  which  belongs  to  the  Roman  or  Ante- 
Gothic  architecture,  and  which,  especially  after  the  time  of 
Charlemagne,  diffused  itself  from  Italy  over  the  whole  of 
the  West  and  North  of  Europe,  where  it  continued  to  pre- 
dominate until  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century,  —  that  style 
which  some  authors  have,  from  one  of  its  most  striking 
characteristics,  called  the  round  arch  style,  the  same  which 
in  England  is  denominated  Saxon  and  sometimes  Norman 
architecture. 

"  On  the  ancient  structure  in  Newport  there  are  no  orna- 
ments remaining,  which  might  possibly  have  served  to  guide 
us  in  assigning  the  probable  date  of  its  erection.  That  no 
vestige  whatever  is  found  of  the  pointed  arch,  nor  any  ap- 
proximation to  it,  is  indicative  of  an  earlier  rather  than  of 
a  later  period.  From  such  characteristics  as  remain,  how- 
ever, we  can  scarcely  form  any  other  inference  than  one,  in 
which  I  am  persuaded  that  all  who  are  familiar  with  Old- 
Northern  architecture  will  concur,  THAT  THIS  BUILDING  WAS 

ERECTED    AT»A   PERIOD    DECIDEDLY   NOT   LATER   THAN   THE 

TWELFTH  CENTURY.  This  remark  applies,  of  course,  to  the 
original  building  only,  and  not  to  the  alterations  that  it  sub- 
sequently received  ;  for  there  are  several  such  alterations  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  building  which  cannot  be  mistaken, 
and  which  were  most  likely  occasioned  by  its  being  adapted 
in  modern  times  to  various  uses  ;  for  example,  as  the  sub- 
structure of  a  windmill,  and  latterly  as  a  hay  magazine. 
To  the  same  times  may  be  referred  the  windows,  the  fire- 
place, and  the  apertures  made  above  the  columns.  That  this 
building  could  not  have  been  erected  for  a  windmill,  is  what 
an  architect  will  easily  discern." 

Dr.  Palfrey,  in  his  History  of  New  England,  so  cogently 
presented  the  reasons  for  believing  this  tower  to  have  been 
constructed  by  Governor  Arnold,  that  most  students  have 
since  been  disposed  to  accept  this  explanation  ;  but  there 
have  not  been  wanting  those  who  maintained  other  views,  as 
witness  an  article  by  R.  G.  Hatfield  in  Scribner's  Monthly  foi 
March,  1879,  in  which  the  author  maintains  that  the  old 


APPENDIX  311 

mill  at  Newport  ought  to  be  called  the  Vinland  Baptistery  ; 
and  also  an  article  by  Mr.  S.  Edward  Forbes  who  maintains 
that  the  structure  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  Chester- 
ton mill  in  Warwickshire,  with  which  it  is  commonly  com- 
pared. 

With  regard  to  the  Fall  River  skeleton,  which  with  its 
appurtenances  was  unfortunately  burned  before  it  could  be 
satisfactorily  examined  by  experts,  the  following  description 
taken  from  The  American  Monthly  Magazine  for  January, 
1836,  will  give  the  reader  as  full  an  account  as  is  now  pos- 
sible : 

"  In  digging  down  a  hill  near  the  village,  a  large  mass  of 
earth  slid  off,  leaving  in  the  bank  and  partially  uncovered  a 
human  skull,  which  on  examination  was  found  to  belong  to  a 
body  buried  in  a  sitting  posture  ;  the  head  being  about  one 
foot  below  what  had  been  for  many  years  the  surface  of  the 
ground.  The  surrounding  earth  was  carefully  removed,  and 
the  body  found  to  be  enveloped  in  a  covering  of  coarse  bark 
of  a  dark  color.  Within  this  envelope  were  found  the  re- 
mains of  another  of  coarse  cloth,  made  of  fine  bark,  and 
about  the  texture  of  a  Manilla  coffee  bag.  On  the  breast 
was  a  plate  of  brass,  thirteen  inches  long,  six  broad  at  the 
upper  end,  and  five  in  the  lower.  This  plate  appears  to  have 
been  cast,  and  is  from  one-eighth  to  three-thirty-seconds  of 
an  inch  in  thickness.  It  is  so  much  corroded  that  whether 
or  not  anything  was  engraved  upon  it  has  not  yet  been  ascer- 
tained. It  is  oval  in  form,  the  edges  being  irregular,  ap- 
parently made  so  by  corrosion.  Below  the  breastplate,  and 
entirely  encircling  the  body,  was  a  belt  composed  of  brass 
tubes,  each  four  and  a  half  inches  in  length,  and  three-six" 
teenths  of  an  inch  in  diameter,  arranged  longitudinally  and 
close  together,  the  length  of  a  tube  being  the  width  of  the 
belt.  The  tubes  are  of  thin  brass,  cast  upon  hollow  reeds, 
and  were  fastened  together  by  pieces  of  sinew.  Near  the 
right  knee  was  a  quiver  of  arrows.  The  arrows  are  of 
brass,  thin,  flat,  and  triangular  in  shape,  with  a  round  hole 
cut  through  near  the  base.  The  shaft  was  fastened  to  the 
head  by  inserting  the  latter  in  an  opening  at  the  end  of  the 
wood  and  then  tying  with  a  smew  through  the  round  hole,  a 


312 


APPENDIX 


mode  of  constructing  the  weapon  never  practised  by  the 
Indians,  not  even  with  their  arrows  of  thin  shell.  Parts  of 
the  shaft  still  remain  on  some  of  them.  When  first  dis- 
covered, the  arrows  were  in  a  sort  of  quiver  of  bark,  which 
fell  to  pieces  when  exposed  to  the  air." 

The  more  generally  received  opinion  amongst  archaeolo- 
gists makes  the  skeleton  to  be  that  of  an  Indian. 

The  following  is  the  form  in  which  the  poem  was  printed 
in  the  Knickerbocker. 


The  Poet  ques- 
tions the  Skeleton 
in  Armor  at  Fall 
River,  and  asks 
why  his  imagina- 
tion should  be 
haunted  by  so  fear- 
ful an  apparition. 


SAGA  OF  THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

"  Speak  !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 


A  spectral  light 
gleams  in  the  hol- 
low eyes  of  the 
Skeleton,  and  a 
low,  mournful 
voice  issues  from 
his  chest. 


The  Skeleton 
speaks ;  he  had 
been  a  Northern 
Viking,  or  Pirate; 
but  no  song  of  the 
bard  nor  popular 
tradition  had  pre- 
served his  heroic 
deeds  from  obliv- 
ion. 


Relates  the  cour- 
age and  adventures 
of  his  childhood. 


Then  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  hi  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

M  I  was  a  Viking  old ! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  hi  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse ; 
For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half -frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 


APPENDIX 


313 


•*  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf  's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Saug  from  the  meadow. 


More  perilous 
achievements  of 
his  youth. 


*•  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  Corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

M  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 


Becomes  a  pirate, 
and  leads  a  wild 
life  at  sea. 


Likewise  a  wild 
life  on  shore  in 
winter,  carousing 
at  night,  and  hear- 
ing the  tales  of 
some  fierce  Berserk, 
a  descendant  of 
Arngrim,  who 
fought  his  foes 
with  a  naked  breast, 
as  the  name  Ber- 
serk, Bare- shirt, 
sufficiently  d  e  - 
notes. 


As  he  tells  a  story 
of  the  sea,  the  eyes 
of  a  maiden  gaze 
at  him,  and  he  be- 
comes enamored. 


He  wins  the 
maiden's  heart  in 
the  forest. 


Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 


A  beer-carouse  in 
the  halls  of  her  fa- 
ther Hildebrand. 
He  asks  her  hand, 
and  the  minstrels 
are  mute  at  his  au- 
dacity. 


814 


APPENDIX 


He  is  laughed  to 
scorn  by  old  Hil- 
debrand. 


Is  discarded  by 
Hildebrand,  but 
steals  the  maiden 
away  at  night. 


Puts  to  sea  ;  but 
is  pursued  by  Hil- 
debrand and  his 
followers. 


He  gains  upon  his 
pursuers,  when  a 
head-wind  round 
the  Cape  of  Skaw 
drives  him  back. 


Buns  down  the 
vessel  of  Hilde- 
brand, and  sinks 
him  and  his  crew. 


Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 
With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Bound  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  1 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 
With  his  prey  laden, 


APPENDIX  315 

So  toward  the  open  main,  Llke   a  bird   of 

Beating  to  sea  again,  prey,  bears  off.  the 

Through  the  wild  hurricane, 
Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 

And  when  the  storm  was  o'er,  Driven  westward 

Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore  }>y  a  fierce  storm  s 

-,.      .    ,  .       .     ,  but  at  leneth  makes 

Stretching  to  lea-ward  ;  laud  near>Tewport, 

There  for  my  lady's  bower  ftoL/Tower   ** 

Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  sea-ward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears,  Lives  many  years 

She  was  a  mother :  W  Peace-  uis  bride 

dies. 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 

Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another  1 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  I 

Hateful  to  me  were  men. 

In  despair,  falls 
The  sun-light  hateful  1  upon  his  own  spear 

In  the  vast  forest  here,  |gelj;he  fore8t'  and 

Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 
Oh,  death  was  grateful ! 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars,  His  soul  ascend* 

TTrk  frt  ita  »i'if  i  vc  ataro  t°      the        Hall       of 

Odin;  and  with  the 
My  soul  ascended  !  souls    of  warriors, 

There  from  the  flowing  bowl  kJa^to'flielfortS 

Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul,  lan,d-      The    SaS» 

ends. 
Skoal !  to  the  Northland  !  skoal  1 " 

—  Thus  the  tale  ended. 

Page  60.     Skoal  I 

In  Scandinavia,  this  is  the  customary  salutation  when  drink- 
ing a  health.  I  have  slightly  changed  the  orthography  of  the 
word,  in  order  to  preserve  the  correct  pronunciation  \skaa£\. 

Page  79.  Excelsior. 

[The  history  of  the  development  of  this  poem  is  suggested 
by  the  erasures  and  alterations  which  an  examination  of  the 
original  manuscript  discloses.  The  first  stanza  with  its  eras- 
ures is  as  follows : 


316  APPENDIX 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 

When  through  an  Alpine  village  pass'd 

through  snow  and  ice 
bore  nbovfl  all  print* 

'mid 
A  youth  who  notha  riaaarut  ouiig 

A  banner  with  the  strange  device 
Bctpondod  in  an  unliuQYvn  tonguo, 
Excelsior  ! 

The  poet's  first  attempt  was  at  a  contrasted  image  of  the 
peasant's  humble  life  with  its  contentment,  and  the  aspiring 
youth  unintelligible  to  the  peasant  in  the  valley.  It  was  too 
soon  to  introduce  this  contrast ;  he  resolved  to  show  the 
youth  only,  not  speaking,  but  silently  displaying  his  sym- 
bol, precious  however  to  himself.  Then  the  preciousness 
appeared  commonplace  or  necessarily  involved  in  the  very 
action  of  the  youth,  and  the  poet  returned  to  the  idea  of  a 
contrast,  but  this  time  a  contrast  of  cold,  indifferent  nature 
and  passionate,  spiritual  man.  What  an  immense  advance 
in  fulness  of  expression  !  It  is  curious,  however,  that  in 
the  second  draft,  on  another  paper,  also  preserved,  the  poet 
returned  to  this  idea  and  tried  again, 

A  youth  who  bore  a  pearl  of  price, 

possibly  seeking  to  connect  the  image  with  the  Biblical 
one  in  order  to  suggest  the  interpretation  of  his  parable  by 
linking  it  with  an  accepted  image  of  spiritual  contempt  of 
the  world.  There  is  a  slight  verbal  correction  also  in  'mid 
for  through,  as  if  the  physical  difficulty  of  through  ice  an- 
noyed  him.  The  second  stanza  in  the  first  draft  reads  : 

his  eye  beneath 
His  brow  was  sad ;  but  undornoatU 

Flash'd  like  a  f aulchion  from  its  sheath 

Hio  otool  blue  oy(» 

rung 

And  like  a  silver  clarion  etro£ 
The  accents  of  that 
Hio  DTTpol:  Toi"e  i»  an  unknown  tongue, 

Excelsior  I 


APPENDIX  317 

Here  he  was  dissatisfied  as  soon  as  he  had  half  completed 
the  third  line,  for  he  had  finished  the  idea  and  had  half  a 
line  to  spare.  He  went  back,  struck  out  but  underneath,  wrote 
his  eye  beneath,  which  instantly  gave  him  the  compactness 
he  wished  and  a  straightforwardness  of  construction  also. 
Then,  probably,  when  he  had  said  that  his  sweet  voice  sung 
like  a  silver  clarion,  he  reflected  that  a  clarion  rung  rather 
than  sung,  and  changing  this  word,  he  saw  that  in  the  ac- 
cents of  the  tongue  he  had  a  more  ringing  power  than  he 
had  in  a  sweet  voice,  and  certainly  not  only  is  the  measure 
of  the  last  line  now  better,  but  there  has  been  a  great  access 
of  virility  ;  the  mere  change  of  sung  to  rung  has  lifted  the 
third  line  into  something  like  a  trumpet-note. 

In  the  third  stanza,  the  first  draft  showed  only  two  slight 
alterations  ;  in  the  first  line  he  wrote  "  humble  homes  " 
which  he  changed  to  "happy  homes,"  thus  presenting  a 
stronger  contrast  to  the  youth's  loneliness,  and  in  the  second 
he  changed  "pure  and  bright"  to  "clear  and  bright,"  but 
the  whole  stanza  was  unsatisfactory  as  it  then  stood  : 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  clear  and  bright, 
And  far  o'erhead  the  glaciers  shone, 
His  lips  breath'd  with  a  stifled  groan, 

Excelsior  ! 

The  labor  appears  in  the  second  draft,  where  the  first  two 
lines  are  the  same,  but  the  second  two  are  thus  worked  over : 

Above  the  spectral 

And  far  abuvo  the  glaciers  shone ; 

And  from  his  lips  escaped  a 

nil)  lipo  ronfCooM.the. rising  groan. 

Not  only  is  the  rhythm  better  in  this  last  line,  but  the  action 
is  far  more  poetic,  while  both  lines  have  gained  in  nervous 
force  and  in  their  connection  with  each  other.  As  first 
written,  there  was  an  awkward  halt  at  the  close  of  the  third 
line.  In  the  final  revision  one  other  change  was  introduced 
by  making  the  fires  gleam  "  warm  and  bright "  instead  of 
"  clear  and  bright,"  which  was  a  weak  redundancy,  while 
warm  also  intensifies  the  contrast. 


318  APPENDIX 

The  fourth  stanza  came  easily.  The  first  three  lines  were 
unchanged  in  the  first  draft  or  the  second,  standing  as  they 
do  in  the  printed  form.  The  fourth  line  in  the  first  draft 
appeared 

his  clarion 
And  clear  that  youthful  voice  replied ; 

in  the  second  draft,  it  was 

loud 
And  eteo*  his  clarion  voice  replied ; 

in  the  poem  it  now  reads 

And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied. 

Slight  changes  these,  but  in  the  direction  of  euphony  and 
picturesqueness.  It  may  be  said  that  "  youthful "  in  its  con- 
trast to  the  "  old  man  "  was  preferable,  but  it  was  not  so  eu- 
phonic, and  "clarion,"  though  used  before,  was  probably 
taken  as  suggesting,  with  loudness,  the  spiritual  cry  of  the 
young  man  heard  above  the  physical  voice  of  the  tempest 
and  torrent. 

There  is  some  uncertainty  in  deciphering  the  erasures  of 
the  fifth  stanza.  In  the  corrections,  however,  there  is  no 
singular  variation  of  form  except  that  in  the  third  line, 
"  pale  blue  eye  "  became  altered  to  "  bright  blue  eye  "  ;  pos- 
sibly the  poet  at  first  meant  to  indicate  his  weariness  by 
"pale,"  and  then  resolved  to  give  rather  his  resolution  in 
"  bright." 

In  the  sixth  stanza  "  the  pine  tree's  withered  branch " 
is  an  improvement  upon  the  first  form,  which  appeared  in 
both  drafts,  "the  withered  pine  tree's  branch,"  and  "awful 
avalanche  "  was  first  the  tamer  "  falling  avalanche." 

The  seventh  stanza  was  wholly  rewritten,  and  recast. 
Besides  the  linear  erasures,  lines  are  drawn  downward, 
marking  out  the  whole,  and  a  new  stanza  takes  its  place. 

And  as  the 

Tho  pinna  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 

In  haste  the  convent  gate  unbarr'd 

They 

JU*4  heard  amid  the  falling  snow 

More  faint  that  smothered  voice  of  woe, 
Excelsior  t 


APPENDIX  319 

This  was  clearly  abrupt  in  transition  and  false  also  to  the 
thought  of  the  poem,  for  it  was  no  part  of  the  poet's  inten- 
tion to  characterize  the  cry  as  a  smothered  voice  of  woe  ;  so 
he  rewrote  it  as  it  now  stands,  except  that  in  the  second 
draft  he  wrote  "  startled  air  "  for  "  frosty  "  and  "  clear,  cold," 
successively,  a  change  which  added  a  new  and  striking  effect. 
The  immense  improvement  in  the  new  stanza  is  apparent  at 
a  glance,  since  in  the  turn  of  the  poem  the  very  action  of 
the  monks  is  subtly  connected  with  the  aspiration  of  the 
youth. 

The  first  two  lines  of  the  last  stanza  but  one  gave  the 
poet  some  trouble  before  he  could  find  the  most  fit  expres- 
sion. In  the  first  draft  he  wrote  without  erasure  : 

And  guided  by  the  faithful  hound, 
A  frozen,  lifeless  corse  they  found ; 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
The  banner  with  the  strange  device 

Excelsior  I 
In  the  second  draft  the  first  two  lines  appear  : 

A  traveller,  by 

Bufiod  in  onew  the  faithful  hound 
Half  buried  in  the  snow  was 
FTT  UJB  tlm  rn i  fnynllnr  found 

The  form  in  the  first  draft  was  probably  chosen  before  the 
original  seventh  stanza  was  discarded.  Certainly  the  omis- 
sion of  the  pious  monks  in  the  final  discovery  is  a  gain  ;  the 
loneliness  of  the  youth  is  intensified  when  he  is  discovered 
not  by  one  of  his  own  race,  but  by  a  hound.  Once  more, 
as  in  the  beginning,  there  is,  as  it  were,  a  resolution  into  na- 
ture, and  the  youth,  the  snow  and  ice,  and  a  dumb  creature 
remain. 

The  first  two  lines  of  the  last  stanza  stand  in  print  as  they 
were  first  written,  but  the  last  two  lines  show  the  poet's  fa- 
tigue at  the  close  of  his  work.  He  had  his  idea  perfected, 
but  his  mind  stumbled  over  the  right  words.  Thus  the  first 
draft  is  as  follows  : 


320 


Hie  lipa  TI-./T  "aiipfif  Thfr  rTpn-  nf  df  y 

serene 
And  from  the  deep-sky,  -fetM  and  far 

fell 
A  voice  dropped  like  a  falling  star, 

Excelsior  ! 

He  did  not  know  it  then,  but  he  had  really  finished  his  poem, 
for  when  he  came  later  to  write  a  second  draft,  he  made  hia 
correction  over  again  : 

serene 
And  from  the  deep,  sky,  faiirt  and  far 

At  the  bottom  of  the  first  draft  are  the  words,  "  September 
28,  1841.  Half-past  three  o'clock,  morning.  Now  to  bed." 
He  wrote  first  September  27,  and  then  remembered  that  he 
had  reached  the  next  day  and  changed  the  7  to  8.  If  any 
one  is  curious  to  know  the  day  of  the  week,  it  was  Monday 
night  that  the  poet  sat  up  to  write  this  poem.  Mr.  Simmer's 
letter  to  him  is  dated  merely  Thursday,  so  one  can  imagine 
that  he  had  answered  it  and  now  had  it  lying  by  him  as 
waste  paper. 

The  study  of  the  growth  of  a  poem  is  an  interesting  and 
curious  business,  yet  after  all  how  little  one  really  sees  of 
the  poet  at  work.  Somehow  or  other,  as  Mr.  Lowell  says 
regarding  Hawthorne,  apropos  of  his  note-books,  you  look 
through  the  key-hole  and  think  you  will  catch  the  secret  of 
the  alchemist,  but  at  the  critical  moment  his  back  is  turned 
toward  you.  It  is  rare,  however,  that  one  has  so  good  an 
opportunity  as  this  of  seeing  the  shaping  of  a  poetic  idea.  ] 

Page  104.     As  Lope  says. 

La  colera 

De  un  Espafiol  sentado  no  se  templa, 
Sino  le  representan  en  dos  horas 
Hasta  el  final  juicio  desde  el  Genesis. 

LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

Page  107.     Abrenuncio  Satanas  ! 

"  Digo,  Senora,  respondid  Sancho,  lo  que  tengo  dicho,  que 
de  los  azotes  abernuncio.  Abrenuncio,  habeis  de  decir,  San- 
cho, y  no  como  decis,  dijo  el  Duque."  —  Don  Quixote,  Part 
II.,  ch.  35. 


APPENDIX  321 

Page  119.     Fray  Carrillo. 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a  Spanish  Epigram. 

Siempre  Fray  Carrillo  estas 
Cansaudonos  aca  f  uera ; 
Quien  en  tu  celda  estuviera 
Para  no  verte  jamas ! 

BO'HL  DE  FABEB,  Floresta,  No.  611. 

Page  119.     Padre  Francisco. 

This  is  from  an  Italian  popular  song. 

"Padre  Francesco, 
Padre  Francesco ! " 
—  Cosa  volete  del  Padre  Francesco  ?  — 
"  V'e  una  bella  ragazzina 
Che  si  vuole  confessar !  " 
Fatte  1'  entrare,  f  atte  1'  entrare ! 
Che  la  voglio  confessare. 

KOPISCH,  Volksthiimliehe  Poesien  aus  alien  Mundarten  Italiens  und 
teiner  Inseln,  p.  194. 

Page  121.     Ave!  cujus  calcem  dare. 

From  a  monkish  hymn  of  the  twelfth  century,  in  Sir 
Alexander  Croke's  Essay  on  the  Origin,  Progress,  and  Decline 
of  Rhyming  Latin  Verse,  p.  109. 

Page  129.     The  Gold  of  the  Busne. 

Busne  is  the  name  given  by  the  Gypsies  to  all  who  are 
not  of  their  race. 

Page  132.     Count  of  the  Cole's. 

The  Gypsies  call  themselves  Gales.  See  Borrow's  valua- 
ble and  extremely  interesting  work,  The  Zincali :  or  an  Ac- 
count of  the  Gypsies  in  Spain.  London,  1841. 

Page  133.     Asks  if  his  money-bags  tCould  rise. 

"  (,  Y  volviendome  £  un  lado,  vi  &  un  Avariento,  que  es- 
taba  preguntando  £  otro,  (que  por  haber  sido  embalsamado, 
y  estar  lexos  sus  tripas  no  hablaba,  porque  no  habian  llegado 
si  habian  de  resucitar  aquel  dia  todos  los  enterrados)  si 
resucitarian  unos  bolsones  suyos  ?  "  —  El  Sueho  de  las  Cala~ 
veras. 

Page  134.     And  amen  I  said  my  Cid  the  Campeador. 

A  line  from  the  ancient  Poema  del  Cid. 

Amen,  dixo  Mio  Cid  el  Campeador. 

Line  3044. 


322  APPENDIX 

Page  135.     The  river  of  his  thoughts. 
This  expression  is  from  Dante  :  — 

Si  che  chiaro 
Per  essa  scenda  della  mente  11  fiuine. 

Byron  has  likewise  used  the  expression. 

[She  was  his  life 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  alL 

The  Dream.'] 

Page  135.     Mari  Franca. 

A  common  Spanish  proverb,  used  to  turn  aside  a  question 
one  does  not  wish  to  answer  :  — 

Porque  caso  Mari  Franca 
Quatro  leguas  de  Salamanca. 

Page  137.     Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes. 

The  Spaniards,  with  good  reason,  consider  this  color  of 
the  eye  as  beautiful,  and  celebrate  it  in  song  ;  as,  for  exam- 
ple, in  the  well-known  Villancico  :  — 

Ay  ojuelos  verdes, 
Ay  los  mis  ojuelos, 
Ay  hagan  los  cielos 
Que  de  mi  te  acuerdes ! 

Tengo  confiauza 
De  mis  verdes  ojos. 

BOEL  DE  FABEB,  Floresta,  No.  255. 

Dante  speaks  of  Beatrice's  eyes  as  emeralds.  Purgatorio, 
xxxi.  116.  Lami  says,  in  his  Annotazioni,  "  Erano  i  suoi 
occhi  d'  un  turchino  verdiccio,  simile  a  quel  del  mare." 

Page  138.     The  Avenging  Child. 

See  the  ancient  Ballads  of  El  Infante  Vengador,  and 
Calaynos. 

Page  138.     All  are  sleeping. 

From  the  Spanish.      Bbhl  de  Faber.     Floresta,  No.  282. 

Page  153.     Good  night. 

From  the  Spanish  ;  as  are  likewise  the  songs  immediately 
following,  and  that  which  commences  the  first  scene  of 

Act  in. 

Page  169.     The  evil  eye. 

"  In  the  Gitano  language,  casting  the  evil  eye  is  called 


APPENDIX  323 

Qjuerelar  nasula,  which  simply  means  making  sick,  and 
which,  according  to  the  common  superstition,  is  accom- 
plished by  casting  an  evil  look  at  people,  especially  children, 
who,  from  the  tenderness  of  their  constitution,  are  supposed 
to  be  more  easily  blighted  than  those  of  a  more  mature  age. 
After  receiving  the  evil  glance,  they  fall  sick,  and  die  in  a 
few  hours. 

"The  Spaniards  have  very  little  to  say  respecting  the 
evil  eye,  though  the  belief  in  it  is  very  prevalent,  especially 
in  Andalusia,  amongst  the  lower  orders.  A  stag's  horn  is 
considered  a  good  safeguard,  and  on  that  account  a  small 
horn,  tipped  with  silver,  is  frequently  attached  to  the  chil- 
dren's necks  by  means  of  a  cord  braided  from  the  hair  of 
a  black  mare's  tail.  Should  the  evil  glance  be  cast,  it  is 
imagined  that  the  horn  receives  it,  and  instantly  snaps 
asunder.  Such  horns  may  be  purchased  in  some  of  the 
silversmiths'  shops  at  Seville."  —  Borrow's  Zincali,  vol.  i., 
ch.9. 

Page  170.     On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand. 

This  and  the  following  scraps  of  song  are  from  Borrow's 
Zincali  •  or  an  Account  of  the  Gypsies  in  Spain. 

The  Gypsy  words  in  the  same  scene  may  be  thus  inter- 
preted :  — 

John-Dorados,  pieces  of  gold. 

Pigeon,  a  simpleton. 

In  your  morocco,  stripped. 

Doves,  sheets. 

Moon,  a  shirt. 

Chirelin,  a  thief. 

Murtigalleros,  those  who  steal  at  nightfall. 

Rastilleros,  footpads. 

Hermit,  highway-robber. 

Planets,  candles. 

Commandments,  the  fingers. 

St.  Martin  asleep,  to  rob  a  person  asleep. 

Lanterns,  eyes. 

Goblin,  police  officer. 

Papagayo,  a  spy. 

Vineyards  and  Dancing  John,  to  take  flight. 


324  APPENDIX 

Page  180.     If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden. 

From  the  Spanish  ;  as  is  likewise  the  song  of  the  Contra- 
bandista  on  page  181. 

Page  190.    All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders. 

The  title  of  Foresters  was  given  to  the  early  governors  of 
Flanders,  appointed  by  the  kings  of  France.  Lyderick  du 
Bucq,  in  the  days  of  Clotaire  the  Second,  was  the  first  of 
them  ;  and  Beaudoin  Bras-de-Fer,  who  stole  away  the  fair 
Judith,  daughter  of  Charles  the  Bald,  from  the  French 
court,  and  married  her  in  Bruges,  was  the  last.  After  him 
the  title  of  Forester  was  changed  to  that  of  Count.  Phi- 
lippe d'Alsace,  Guy  de  Dampierre,  and  Louis  de  Crecy, 
coming  later  in  the  order  of  time,  were  therefore  rather 
Counts  than  Foresters.  Philippe  went  twice  to  the  Holy 
Land  as  a  Crusader,  and  died  of  the  plague  at  St.  Jean- 
d'Acre,  shortly  after  the  capture  of  the  city  by  the  Chris- 
tians. Guy  de  Dampierre  died  in  the  prison  of  Compiegne. 
Louis  de  Crecy  was  son  and  successor  of  Robert  de  Bethune, 
who  strangled  his  wife,  Yolande  de  Bourgogne,  with  the 
bridle  of  his  horse,  for  having  poisoned,  at  the  age  of  eleven 
years,  Charles,  his  son  by  his  first  wife,  Blanche  d'Anjou. 

Page  191.     Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended. 

When  Philippe-le-Bel,  king  of  France,  visited  Flanders 
with  his  queen,  she  was  so  astonished  at  the  magnificence  of 
the  dames  of  Bruges,  that  she  exclaimed  :  "  Je  croyais  etre 
seule  reine  ici,  mais  il  parait  que  ceux  de  Flandre  qui  se 
trouvent  dans  nos  prisons  sont  tous  des  princes,  car  leurs 
femmes  sont  habillees  comme  des  princesses  et  des  reines." 

When  the  burgomasters  of  Ghent,  Bruges,  and  Ypres  went 
to  Paris  to  pay  homage  to  King  John,  in  1351,  they  were  re- 
ceived with  great  pomp  and  distinction  ;  but,  being  invited 
to  a  festival,  they  observed  that  their  seats  at  table  were 
not  furnished  with  cushions  ;  whereupon,  to  make  known 
their  displeasure  at  this  want  of  regard  to  their  dignity, 
they  folded  their  richly  embroidered  cloaks  and  seated 
themselves  upon  them.  On  rising  from  table,  they  left 
their  cloaks  behind  them,  and,  being  informed  of  their  ap- 
parent forgetfulness,  Simon  van  Eertrycke,  burgomaster  of 
Bruges,  replied,  "  We  Flemings  are  not  in  the  habit  of  car- 
tying  away  our  cushions  after  dinner." 


APPENDIX  325 

Page  191.     Knights  who  bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Philippe  de  Bourgogne,  surnamed  Le  Bon,  espoused  Isa- 
bella of  Portugal  on  the  10th  of  January,  1430  ;  and  on  the 
same  day  instituted  the  famous  order  of  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Page  191.     /  beheld  the  gentle  Mary. 

Marie  de  Valois,  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  was  left  by  the 
death,  of  her  father,  Charles  le  Temeraire,  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  the  richest  heiress  of  Europe.  She  came  to  Bruges, 
as  Countess  of  Flanders,  in  1477,  and  in  the  same  year  was 
married  by  proxy  to  the  Archduke  Maximilian.  According 
to  the  custom  of  the  time,  the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  Maximilian's 
substitute,  slept  with  the  princess.  They  were  both  in  com- 
plete dress,  separated  by  a  naked  sword,  and  attended  by 
four  armed  guards.  Marie  was  adored  by  her  subjects  for 
her  gentleness  and  her  many  other  virtues. 

Maximilian  was  son  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  the  Third, 
and  is  the  same  person  mentioned  afterwards  in  the  poem 
of  Nuremberg,  as  the  Kaiser  Maximilian,  and  the  hero  of 
Pflnzing's  poem  of  Teuerdank.  Having  been  imprisoned 
by  the  revolted  burghers  of  Bruges,  they  refused  to  release 
him,  till  he  consented  to  kneel  in  the  public  square,  and  to 
swear  on  the  Holy  Evangelists  and  the  body  of  Saint  Dona- 
tus  that  he  would  not  take  vengeance  upon  them  for  their 
rebellion. 

Page  191.     The  bloody  battle  of  the  Spurs  of  Gold. 

This  battle,  the  most  memorable  in  Flemish  history,  was 
fought  under  the  walls  of  Courtray,  on  the  llth  of  July, 
1302,  between  the  French  and  the  Flemings,  the  former 
commanded  by  Robert,  Comte  d'Artois,  and  the  latter  by 
Guillaume  de  Juliers,  and  Jean,  Comte  de  Nainur.  The 
French  army  was  completely  routed,  with  a  loss  of  twenty 
thousand  infantry  and  seven  thousand  cavalry ;  among 
whom  were  sixty-three  princes,  dukes,  and  counts,  seven 
hundred  lords-banneret,  and  eleven  hundred  noblemen. 
The  flower  of  the  French  nobility  perished  on  that  day  ;  to 
which  history  has  given  the  name  of  the  Journee  des  Eperons 
d'Or,  from  the  great  number  of  golden  spurs  found  on  the 
field  of  battle.  Seven  hundred  of  them  were  hung  up  as  a 
trophy  in  the  church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Courtray  ;  and,  as 


326  APPENDIX 

the  cavaliers  of  that  day  wore  but  a  single  spur  each,  these 
vouched  to  God  for  the  violent  aud  bloody  death  of  seven 
hundred  of  his  creatures. 

Page  191.     Saw  the  fight  at  M innewater. 

When  the  inhabitants  of  Bruges  were  digging  a  canal  at 
Minnewater,  to  bring  the  waters  of  the  Lys  from  Deynze  to 
their  city,  they  were  attacked  and  routed  by  the  citizens  of 
Ghent,  whose  commerce  would  have  been  much  injured  by 
the  canal.  They  were  led  by  Jean  Lyons,  captain  of  a  mili- 
tary company  at  Ghent,  called  the  Chaperons  Blancs.  He 
had  great  sway  over  the  turbulent  populace,  who,  in  those 
prosperous  times  of  the  city,  gained  an  easy  livelihood  by 
laboring  two  or  three  days  in  the  week,  and  had  the  remain- 
ing four  or  five  to  devote  to  public  affairs.  The  fight  at 
Minnewater  was  followed  by  open  rebellion  against  Louis 
de  Maele,  the  Count  of  Flanders  and  Protector  of  Bruges. 
His  superb  chateau  of  Wondelghem  was  pillaged  and  burnt ; 
and  the  insurgents  forced  the  gates  of  Bruges,  and  entered 
in  triumph,  with  Lyons  mounted  at  their  head.  A  few  days 
afterwards  he  died  suddenly,  perhaps  by  poison. 

Meanwhile  the  insurgents  received  a  check  at  the  village 
of  Nevele  ;  and  two  hundred  of  them  perished  in  the  church, 
which  was  burned  by  the  Count's  orders.  One  of  the  chiefs, 
Jean  de  Lannoy,  took  refuge  in  the  belfry.  From  the  sum- 
mit of  the  tower  he  held  forth  his  purse  filled  with  gold,  and 
begged  for  deliverance.  It  was  in  vain.  His  enemies  cried 
to  him  from  below  to  save  himself  as  best  he  might  ;  and, 
half  suffocated  with  smoke  and  flame,  he  threw  himself  from 
the  tower  and  perished  at  their  feet.  Peace  was  soon  after- 
wards established,  and  the  Count  retired  to  faithful  Bruges. 

Page  191.     The  Golden  Dragon's  nest. 

The  Golden  Dragon,  taken  from  the  church  of  St.  Sophia, 
at  Constantinople,  in  one  of  the  Crusades,  and  placed  on  the 
belfry  of  Bruges,  was  afterwards  transported  to  Ghent  by 
Philip  van  Artevelde,  and  still  adorns  the  belfry  of  that  city. 

The  inscription  on  the  alarm-bell  at  Ghent  is,  "  Mynen 
naem  is  Roland  •  als  ik  klep  is  er  brand,  and  als  ik  luy  is  er 
victorie  in  het  land."  My  name  is  Roland  ;  when  I  toll  there 
is  fire,  and  when  I  ring  there  is  victory  in  the  land. 


APPENDIX  327 

Page  198.     That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand 
through  every  clime. 
An  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  runs  thus  :  — 

Nurnberg's  Hand 
Geht  durch  alle  Land. 

Nuremberg's  Hand 
Goes  through  every  land. 

Page  198.  Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Mazi* 
milian's  praise. 

Melchior  Pflnzing  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  German 
poets  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  hero  of  his  Teuer- 
dank  was  the  reigning  Emperor,  Maximilian  ;  and  the  poem 
was  to  the  Germans  of  that  day  what  the  Orlando  Furioso 
was  to  the  Italians.  Maximilian  is  mentioned  before,  in  the 
Belfry  of  Bruges.  See  page  191. 

Page  198.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined 
his  holy  dust. 

The  tomb  of  Saint  Sebald,  in  the  church  which  bears  his 
name,  is  one  of  the  richest  works  of  art  in  Nuremberg.  It 
is  of  bronze,  and  was  cast  by  Peter  Vischer  and  his  sons, 
who  labored  upon  it  thirteen  years.  It  is  adorned  with 
nearly  one  hundred  figures,  among  which  those  of  the 
Twelve  Apostles  are  conspicuous  for  size  and  beauty. 

Page  198.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix 
of  sculpture  rare. 

This  pix,  or  tabernacle  for  the  vessels  of  the  sacrament, 
is  by  the  hand  of  Adam  Kraft.  It  is  an  exquisite  piece  of 
sculpture  in  white  stone,  and  rises  to  the  height  of  sixty-four 
feet.  It  stands  in  the  choir,  whose  richly  painted  windows 
cover  it  with  varied  colors. 

Page  200.     Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters. 

The  Twelve  Wise  Masters  was  the  title  of  the  original 
corporation  of  the  Mastersingers.  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler 
of  Nuremberg,  though  not  one  of  the  original  Twelve,  was 
the  most  renowned  of  the  Mastersingers,  as  well  as  the 
most  voluminous.  He  nourished  in  the  sixteenth  century  ; 
and  left  behind  him  thirty-four  folio  volumes  of  manuscript, 
containing  two  hundred  and  eight  plays,  one  thousand  and 


328  APPENDIX 

seven  hundred  comic  tales,  and  between  four  and  five  thou- 
sand lyric  poems. 

Page  200.     As  in  Adam  Puschman's  song. 

Adam  Puschman,  in  his  poem  on  the  death  of  Hans  Sachs, 
describes  him  as  he  appeared  in  a  vision  :  — 

An  old  man, 

Gray  and  white,  and  dove-like, 
Who  had,  in  sooth,  a  great  beard, 
And  read  in  a  fair,  great  book, 
Beautiful  with  golden  clasps. 

Page  220.  Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once  caught  the 
bolts  of  the  thunder. 

"  A  delegation  of  warriors  from  the  Delaware  tribe  having 
visited  the  governor  of  Virginia,  during  the  Revolution,  on 
matters  of  business,  after  these  had  been  discussed  and  set- 
tled in  council,  the  governor  asked  them  some  questions 
relative  to  their  country,  and  among  others,  what  they  knew 
or  had  heard  of  the  animal  whose  bones  were  found  at  the 
Saltlicks  on  the  Ohio.  Their  chief  speaker  immediately  put 
himself  into  an  attitude  of  oratory,  and,  with  a  pomp  suited 
to  what  he  conceived  the  elevation  of  his  subject,  informed 
him  that  it  was  a  tradition  handed  down  from  their  fathers, 
'  that  in  ancient  times  a  herd  of  these  tremendous  animals 
came  to  the  Big-bone  licks,  and  began  an  universal  destruc- 
tion of  the  bear,  deer,  elks,  buffaloes,  and  other  animals 
which  had  been  created  for  the  use  of  the  Indians  :  that  the 
Great  Man  above,  looking  down  and  seeing  this,  was  so  en- 
raged that  he  seized  his  lightning,  descended  on  the  earth, 
seated  himself  on  a  neighboring  mountain,  on  a  rock  of 
•which  his  seat  and  the  priijt  of  his  feet  are  still  to  be  seen, 
and  hurled  his  bolts  among  them  till  the  whole  were  slaugh- 
tered, except  the  big  bull,  who,  presenting  his  forehead  to 
the  shafts,  shook  them  off  as  they  fell  ;  but  missing  one  at 
length,  it  wounded  him  in  the  side  ;  whereon,  springing 
round,  he  bounded  over  the  Ohio,  over  the  Wabash,  the 
Illinois,  and  finally  over  the  great  lakes,  where  he  is  living 
at  this  day.'  "  —  Jefferson's  Notes  on  Virginia,  Query  VI. 

Page  227.      Vogelweid  the  Minnesinger. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid,  or  Bird-Meadow,  was  one  of 


APPENDIX  329 

the  principal  Minnesingers  of  the  thirteenth  century.  He 
triumphed  over  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  in  that  poetic 
contest  at  Wartburg  Castle,  known  in  literary  history  as  the 
War  of  Wartburg. 

Page  236.     Like  imperial  Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne  may  be  called  by  preeminence  the  monarch 
of  farmers.  According  to  the  German  tradition,  in  seasons 
of  great  abundance,  his  spirit  crosses  the  Rhine  on  a  golden 
bridge  at  Bingen,  and  blesses  the  cornfields  and  the  vine- 
yards. During  his  lifetime,  he  did  not  disdain,  says  Mon- 
tesquieu, "  to  sell  the  eggs  from  the  farmyards  of  his 
domains,  and  the  superfluous  vegetables  of  his  gardens  ; 
while  he  distributed  among  his  people  the  wealth  of  the 
Lombards  and  the  immense  treasures  of  the  Huns." 

Page  252. 

Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 

Is  swung  into  its  place. 

I  wish  to  anticipate  a  criticism  on  this  passage,  by  stating 
that  sometimes,  though  not  usually,  vessels  are  launched 
fully  sparred  and  rigged.  I  have  availed  myself  of  the  ex- 
ception as  better  suited  to  my  purposes  than  the  general 
rule  ;  but  the  reader  will  see  that  it  is  neither  a  blunder  nor 
a  poetic  license.  On  this  subject  a  friend  in  Portland, 
Maine,  writes  me  thus  :  — 

"  In  this  State,  and  also,  I  am  told,  hi  New  York,  ships 
are  sometimes  rigged  upon  the  stocks,  in  order  to  save  time, 
or  to  make  a  show.  There  was  a  fine,  large  ship  launched 
last  summer  at  Ellsworth,  fully  sparred  and  rigged.  Some 
years  ago  a  ship  was  launched  here,  with  her  rigging,  spars, 
sails,  and  cargo  aboard.  She  sailed  the  next  day  and  —  was 
never  heard  of  again !  I  hope  this  will  not  be  the  fate  of 
your  poem  ! " 

Page  264.     Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed. 

"  When  the  wind  abated  and  the  vessels  were  near  enough, 
the  Admiral  was  seen  constantly  sitting  in  the  stern,  with  a 
book  in  his  hand.  On  the  9th  of  September  he  was  seen  for 
the  last  time,  and  was  heard  by  the  people  of  the  Hind  to 
say,  *  We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea  as  by  land.'  In  the  fol- 


330  APPENDIX 

lowing  night,  the  lights  of  the  ship  suddenly  disappeared. 
The  people  in  the  other  vessel  kept  a  good  lookout  for  him 
during  the  remainder  of  the  voyage.  On  the  22d  of  Sep- 
tember they  arrived,  through  much  tempest  and  peril,  at 
Falmouth.  But  nothing  more  was  seen  or  heard  of  the  Ad- 
miral." —  Belknap's  American  Biography,  i.  203. 

Page  270. 

These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise. 

"  Although  affliction  cometh  not  forth  of  the  dust,  neither 
doth  trouble  spring  out  of  the  ground."  —  Job,  v.  6. 

Page  277.     Witlaf,  a  king  of  the  Saxons. 

[In  point  of  fact,  Witlaf  was  one  of  the  Angle  kings  of 
Mercia,  who  made  a  gallant  stand  against  the  Saxon  in- 
vaders. It  was  while  falling  back  before  Egbert  that  Witlaf 
took  sanctuary  at  Croyland,  where  he  was  for  four  months 
kept  hidden  by  Siward,  third  Abbot  of  Croyland.  At  the 
end  of  three  years  Siward's  influence  procured  the  resto- 
ration of  Witlaf,  who  became  tributary  to  Egbert.  In  grati- 
tude to  the  monks,  Witlaf  greatly  added  to  the  grants  and 
privileges  of  the  house.] 


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